# Chapter 28: The Cradle and the Grave
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 28 of "Mistress Of The Sun free digital audiobook." This is one of the most sorrowful turns in the whole story—a chapter where love, secrecy, motherhood, and death press down on Petite until she can barely stand. So take a breath, settle in, and let's walk through it together.
The chapter opens in the woods, away from watching eyes. Louis pulls his horse to a stop, jumps down, tosses the reins to Gautier, and signals Petite to follow him. When they are hidden among the trees, he takes her into his arms. Her hat falls to the ground. Then he says the words that will shatter her: their baby is dead. The youngest. Filoy.
Petite cannot make sense of it at first. She sees Louis's mouth moving, but the words seem to come from far away. She dries his cheeks with her kerchief, asks how it happened, and takes his trembling gloved hand. Strangely, she feels steady—as if she has floated above the moment, looking down from the leaves of the towering trees. Louis tells her the baby was with his wet nurse at a procession. There was a thunderclap. And then the infant's heart simply stopped. Not lightning. Only the terrible sound of it.
Petite feels sickness rise in her. She remembers Filoy propped up by pillows, babbling, sucking his fingers. She hardly knew him, and now he is gone forever. Louis covers his eyes and cries out to God. Petite begins to tremble as the horror of the scene takes shape in her mind. Louis says Colbert is returning to Paris immediately and will look after everything. Petite insists she will go with him. She wants to lay Filoy out, surround him with flowers, bless him with her tears. But Louis looks up at the sky and tells her she must not go—not in her condition. She is carrying their child. She cannot be in the presence of death.
Tears burst from her. Is she truly not to see her baby one last time? Louis kisses her tear-wet hand and pleads with her for the sake of the child she carries—their child, his child. Petite sobs and beats his chest. No. No.
Baby Filoy is put into the ground. Sixteen days later, two-year-old Charles slips away in a burning fever. Petite takes to her bed and does not rise. Monsieur Blucher fears she will lose the child she is carrying, so silent and deep is her grief. Louis visits when he can, but he is often busy reviewing troops. He sits by her bed and talks of regiments, warhorses, armor, and weaponry. Petite's indifference to the world makes him uneasy. His own grief—for his infant daughter, his mother, the two boys—overwhelms him. He keeps it at bay by keeping moving. He will vanquish Death on the battlefield. He will have his revenge.
Blucher advises Louis to send Petite to Vincennes with the Court. It is not far, the change might do her good, and she will not go into childbed until the new year. So Petite goes to Vincennes, a fortress northeast of Paris. It is not a pleasant castle. The rooms open one upon another with little privacy. When the west wind blows, the stench of the prison is strong. Now and then the captive lions can be heard roaring. The chapel is small but often empty. Petite sits there, too angry with God to pray. In the afternoons she sits with the women, poking at her embroidery, pretending to care as they talk about the magnificence of the King's troops and the splendor of military reviews. London has burned. The King has turned twenty-eight. The leaves are falling early. It is all the same to her.
On the last Saturday before the Court is to leave Vincennes, Petite wakes with a backache and restlessness. She has had cramps on and off all night. Clorine draws back the bed curtains and brings small beer and cake. Petite says she will need Court dress for tonight—the last médianoche at Vincennes. She is eager to leave. She feels isolated in her grief, like some malevolent wandering spirit. She has not slept well for months.
Clorine laces her into a boned corset. Petite demands it tighter, tells her to use her feet. Clorine warns that her last mistress died doing this, but she pulls the bindings. Petite is dressed in three flannel petticoats and a voluminous wool gown that helps conceal her condition. Then she hears an urgent horse whinny. She goes to the window. The panes are fogged. She draws the letter C for Charles, who loved to draw lines in the mist. Why have both boys died? she demands angrily. She prays for forgiveness, fearing for the child she carries—another soul conceived in mislove. Dread fills her that it might die in her womb.
Below, Louis and a party of men are on horseback in the courtyard, attended by six guards with carbines. He is going to Versailles and will return the next day for another military review. She watches him mount Feisty, the small black trotter he prefers, and ride out. She closes the window and wipes out the letter C. Such beautiful boys, she thinks, and tears flow again.
Then something changes. A rush of warmth. She stands, alarmed. A contraction grips her. She calls for Clorine. Another contraction comes, and she hisses for Blucher. Her womb is opening.
By the time Clorine returns with the sleepy surgeon—he had been up until dawn at the gaming tables—Petite's pains are steady and strong. She says she cannot have the baby here. Her room is a passage, and the Queen's suite is close. Blucher tells her she has no choice. Then Madame Henriette is heard on her way to Mass. Petite parts the bed curtains and gasps that she has terrible colic. Henriette offers sympathy and passes through with Yeyette and two pages, who turn to stare.
Blucher, who was meant to be a priest but became a male midwife—the first in history, as he likes to think—stands in awe of a woman's strength in labor. Petite's pains come quick and strong. The child has sunk down. He greases his hands with almond oil and feels the open neck of the womb. The baby is coming headlong, but with one hand thrust out. Even he is alarmed. He beats an egg with almond oil and pours it into the passage. He warns Petite that this will hurt. The maid clamps a hand over Petite's mouth to stifle her scream as he pushes the baby back in. Then he opens her thighs and knees wide and anoints the passage with duck grease. At last, with guidance and prayer, the baby slithers out straight—a pale, weak girl.
Blucher tells Petite she has a daughter. She has fainted. He cuts the navel-string shorter than he would for a boy, so the girl will be modest and her passage narrow. He squeezes drops of blood from the cut cord into the infant's mouth. The baby cries out. Petite whimpers. The maid says the baby must be hidden, for Henriette and others will return after Mass. Blucher tells her to take the child to his room in the service quarter, where his wife will know what to do. The swaddled infant is put in a basket and covered. The maid rushes off.
Petite is still in a swoon. Blucher shakes her awake and holds white hellebore powder to her nose. She sneezes, and he presses on her belly. She sneezes again, groans, and the afterbirth comes out entire. Praise the Lord. The maid returns breathless: the service is ending, and Madame will be coming through. Blucher anoints Petite's belly with oil of St. John's wort and lays a rabbitskin over it. He says she must lie in for forty days. Clorine protests that this would cause suspicion. Blucher warns that if she does not rest, her womb will wander. Clorine says her mistress will not lie abed. Then pray for her, Blucher replies, and gives Clorine a folded square of bandage. Inside is a short length of the infant's navel-string. It will defend her from devils, he says, and quickly takes his leave.
After the ordeal, Petite asks Clorine listlessly whether it was a boy or a girl. With its first cry, the newborn had disappeared. She does not even know where. Clorine says it was a girl. Petite wonders where Blucher will find a wet nurse. She says she needs to wash before being wrapped. She looks at the bloody mass in the chamber pot and asks what Clorine will do with it. Clorine says she is not sure yet and nudges the pot under the bed. Voices approach on the other side of the curtains—Henriette returning from Mass. Petite falls back against the pillows and says she should rest, that she will need her strength for tonight. Clorine glares and tells her she is not going anywhere, that she is to stay abed. Petite closes her eyes and says, Don't fight me on this.
At eleven that evening, Clorine gets Petite to drink barley water. She takes away the bloody bandages and bathes her with chervil water scented with honey of roses to guard against inflammation. Petite is still bleeding. Clorine pads her with clean cloths and helps her stand. Petite says she can walk, but she stumbles. She lowers herself onto the stool before her toilette table, wincing. She says she will need light. Clorine sets a lantern beside the jars of pomade.
Petite looks at her reflection and says she is a fright. Clorine dips her head. The year has been hard on her mistress. Women who rise too early from childbed become wrinkled. Petite touches the dry branch stuck in the mirror frame. One of the leaves falls. She brushes it to the floor. Then she takes Venice White and spreads a layer over her face with a trembling hand. She dyes her lips with Spanish Red and applies red gum to her cheeks. The charcoal smudges as she pencils her brows. Clorine offers to help. She retraces the brows and places a black silk patch on each cheek, but nothing can hide the vacant look in Petite's eyes. Yes, Clorine thinks. A ghost.
At midnight, Petite enters the ballroom for the Court's last médianoche at Vincennes. Many turn to stare. She walks straight and upright as a wooden doll, her face plastered, her hair shellacked into ringlets. Henriette asks if she is well now, saying she seemed in pain that morning. Petite answers that she had a dreadful attack of colic but is quite well now. Then Yeyette asks if anyone heard a baby crying. Petite says she heard it—it was the strangest thing. Athénaïs regards her thoughtfully. Petite endures the evening, waiting until others begin retiring before she takes her leave. She walks through the echoing rooms to her own, sits listlessly on the edge of the bed, and lets Clorine unlace her, free her from the painful bodice, and wipe the flaking white lead from her cheeks. Clorine says there is not so much blood as before, so that is good. Petite echoes her. Clorine says she said Petite's prayers for her and pulls the curtains. Petite stares long into the dark, her hands on the slack skin of her empty belly.
The next morning, Athénaïs joins Petite after Mass. She takes Petite's elbow as they climb the marble stairs and asks how she is doing. Petite says she gets dizzy now and then and lies that it is that time of the month. Athénaïs says she knows what she means. Then she gives Petite a small earthen bottle stoppered with wax—a tonic that has worked for a number of ladies. She says she takes it with brandy, lots of brandy, and laughs. She asks if she can sit for a moment. Petite apologizes for neglecting her manners.
Athénaïs reminds Petite of when she used to call her little sister. That was long ago. Before she married. And had two children, Petite knows. Petite longs to talk about such things, but that part of her life is hidden. The false part is in the light. She asks about Athénaïs's husband. Athénaïs waves a hand and says he is off on some adventure somewhere. She only knows of his doings because men arrive with mémoires—their reminders, as they delicately put it. What they really are, she says, are threatening demands for payment of his gambling debts. But she does not wish to burden Petite. Then she leans forward and places a gloved hand lightly on Petite's shoulder. Louise, she says, you can speak freely to me.
Petite looks into Athénaïs's sapphire-blue eyes. Athénaïs is one of the Court's great beauties, but it is her wit and generous heart that Petite likes. She has always been kind. Petite says she does not know what Athénaïs means, still guarded. Athénaïs says yes, she does. She says she will be honest: she thinks it is cruel what they are making Petite go through. They. Petite looks away. Athénaïs says most everyone knows what is going on. But surely not everything, Petite thinks. Many know about her relationship with the King, but nobody knows about the babies—the two who died, much less the one she has just given birth to practically in the Queen's own room. Petite says even she does not know what is going on. Athénaïs smiles kindly and tells her to drink the tonic and lie down. She peels off the wax plug, sniffs the contents, and hands the bottle to Petite. She says it is sweet and Petite will like it. It helped her recover after she birthed. It is only natural for things to be wobbly for a time.
She does know, Petite thinks, with both chagrin and relief. She thanks Athénaïs and takes a sip. That night, Petite sleeps like the dead, dreaming of her father in a field of horses, of Charles and Filoy. She wakes weeping to the sound of trumpets announcing the King's return.
A few days later, the Court sets out. Bed frames, toilette tables, clothing trunks, kitchen implements, dishware, utensils, bed curtains, and linens are loaded onto ninety-two carts. Paris holds unhappy memories of the Queen Mother's death, and work is being done on the Louvre. So Louis decides to settle the Court in Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the winter. Petite is relieved. It feels like a new beginning.
On packing day, Clorine tells Petite she is not to lift a thing. She takes a basket of hats out of Petite's hands and scolds her, saying she will kill herself at this rate. She wraps the statue of the Virgin in small linens and tucks it into a basket. She tells Petite to sit down—better yet, lie down. Petite tells her not to forget the brittle branch from the mirror. The continual round of functions at Vincennes has exhausted her: the military review, two theatricals, the never-ending gaming tables. Even her morning and evening prayers are fatiguing. She hands Clorine her keepsake box and tucks her rosary into her poke. Someday soon she will feel herself again. Someday soon she will see the child she birthed.
The cobbled paths of Saint-Germain-en-Laye are carpeted with golden leaves. Petite kicks them up listlessly as she walks to the new château where Monsieur and Madame Colbert are housed with their throng of lively children. Along with Petite's baby girl. Mist rises off the river. Her teeth chatter as she pulls the bell rope at the door. Louis has named their baby Marie-Anne, after his mother, and arranged for her to reside with the Colbert household. She is reported to be small, somewhat frail—she was born early, Blucher said—and Louis worried the infant would not have adequate care in a servant's home. Petite is relieved: she does not think she could survive another infant death.
A maid leads her up the stairs to the nursery. The doors open on a familiar family scene: Madame Colbert sitting in a rocking chair, tatting lace in a large, sunny room bustling with children. Madame Colbert shoos her noisy brood away and stands smiling as the nursemaid presents Petite with a tightly swaddled infant. The baby's screams are piercing, and her tiny face is red—a monkey face, Petite thinks. Madame Colbert says she is fussy, takes the baby, and rocks her vigorously. There, there, sweet Marie-Anne, she coos until the infant quiets. Then she tells Petite to hold her now, quick, before she begins again. Petite says she thinks she should be going. She backs away. Her head is hot and her heart is cold. Madame Colbert says she does not think Petite is well. Petite says she is fine. She repeats it to Clorine on her return to her room in the old château.
Clorine presses a hand to Petite's brow and says she has heat in her head. She will send for Monsieur Blucher. Petite says don't. She does not want to see the surgeon or reveal that she suffers pain in her nether region, that spells of inexplicable weakness come over her now and again. She says there is a rehearsal that afternoon for the new ballet. Clorine says she will send word that Petite has a fever. Petite says His Majesty will be there. She holds onto the bedpost for support.
Clorine bangs the candlestick she is polishing down on the side table. Petite turns and asks what that was. Clorine clasps her hands and says she does not sleep for worry. Petite has no father, her mother has disowned her, and her brother is something of a gay-blade, so it falls to Clorine to speak. She takes a breath. This is no way to live, she says—all this secrecy, all the time pretending Petite is not with child, not in childbed, has not just given birth. Petite tears up. Clorine rants on: all the time pretending everything is perfectly fine, that the two boys did not die all of a sudden, like that. She snaps her fingers for effect. A nice young woman like Petite should have a husband to look after her, children she can boast of. She should marry a highborn man. The King could arrange it. Stop, Petite says. Clorine presses on: a man such as Monsieur le Duc de Gautier would be so very— Petite forbids her to say another word on the subject. She loves Louis. Clorine asks, But the King? Do you love the King?
Petite is brought back to her room in a litter. Gautier tells Clorine she collapsed right in the middle of blocking, before they had even started going through the steps. Petite insists she is fine and staggers toward the bed. Dream images come into her head in a frightening rush—a man in a wooden mask, her two boys riding away on a White, a ramshackle coach without wheels. She collapses on the bed, weakened by the memory of so many losses: her father, the two boys, Diablo. Monsieur Blucher orders her bled from the foot and prescribes weekly purging. She is not to move from the bed without his permission. At the door, the surgeon pauses to speak with Clorine. Petite births with difficulty, he says. She must abstain from—he clears his throat—another pregnancy could kill her.
All that gray winter, Petite does everything as prescribed. She refrains from congress, endures bleedings, purges, and enemas, downs vile teas and medicinal concoctions. Every other afternoon, Louis comes dutifully to see her. She asks about ballet rehearsals, hunts, military preparations. She inquires of the news, their daughter, the Dauphin's health. Louis answers, then sits looking out the window, drumming his fingers. Petite understands. His love cannot follow her into grief. He is of the sun, not the moon. Vainly, she tries to entertain him. Sometimes they lie side by side, listening to the birds and the wind. Aware of his frustration, Petite offers means of giving relief. It is not healthy for a man to go without release. It is not the same, he says. Petite says she would understand if he lay with another woman. The Queen is with child, and she—her spells of weakness baffle her. She has always prided herself on her strength, her prowess. She was his wilderness companion, his queen of the hunt, as bold on horseback as any of his men. Now she is one of the fallen—weak, weary, and unsteady on her feet.
Athénaïs comes often to visit. As Petite does needlework, her friend fills her in on Court gossip. The Queen has consulted her astrologer. She is all in favor of a war with Spain—her native country—to claim her Netherlands. All the men talk of is war. They complain it is impossible to buy a good mount now, much less find canvas suitably heavy for making a tent. They neglect to mention the money they have borrowed to outfit themselves, the heirloom silver they have sold. They are even consulting soothsayers. Thanks to a spell a sorceress gave the Marquis de Louvroy, he inherited the five hundred livres he needed for a suit of armor. One needs to be careful about such things, Petite cautions. Indeed, Athénaïs says, raising her goblet of mulled wine as if in toast.
A number of ladies have been to see Madame la Voisin, the sorceress in Villeneuve-Beauregard, outside the Paris walls. The fortune-teller gave Mademoiselle de Nogaret a charm that appeared to work, because the Marquis de Santa-Cruz is now madly in love with her. But it was his son she yearned for. Petite laughs. She asks if Madame la Voisin is the woman Nicole went to. Most everyone goes to her, Athénaïs says, playing with the key that hangs from her pendant—her good luck charm. Nicole got something called passion powder from her, Petite recalls. The packet is still in Petite's keepsake box. Athénaïs says Nicole will have no need for such powder now. It is rumored Nicole has joined a convent and become a lay nun. Nicole said Madame la Voisin practices dark magic. Nonsense, Athénaïs says. She is a dumpy little woman. I went to her myself not long ago, Athénaïs confesses. You went? Petite asks. But not for passion powder, Athénaïs says with regret. How dreary married life is, to be reduced to going to a woman like that for help regarding financial matters.
Then come the more personal confidences. Athénaïs's husband is in debt again. She will have to sell some of her jewelry to pay off his gambling losses. Plus, he is convinced she is having a tryst with—she stops, making an arch smile. No, she wants Petite to guess. Lauzun? Petite asks. The ugly little man is rumored to have pleasured practically every woman at Court. Athénaïs looks disgusted. No—Philippe. Petite smiles wanly and asks if Athénaïs's husband does not know. It is obvious Louis's brother prefers men. Athénaïs says she told him, but he thought it was a ruse she had fabricated to throw him off the scent. There is a scuffle of feet in the entry, the sound of spurs clinking on stone. His Majesty, Petite says, her heart lifting. Athénaïs says she will be off, then, with a wink. Petite checks her face in the glass. Because of her fragile health, Louis has refrained for the most part, but now she is stronger. They have begun to have relations—in spite of the pain she experiences, and her puzzling want of desire.
At the end of March, Louis sets up a military camp on the Plaine d'Houilles for three days, not far from Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The Court ladies set out, thrilled by the prospect of sleeping in tents and eating like soldiers. Glory, Petite's sister-in-law Gabrielle whispers as their carriage crests a hill. There, before them, is a city of linen tents neatly grouped in rectangles with wide turnpiked streets running between. A line of horses stands picketed at the edge of a parade ground. The officer tents can be seen beyond, at a distance from the line of kitchen campfires. Still farther is an artillery park surrounded by carts. Soldiers cheer to kettledrums as the parade of carriages rolls into camp and halts in front of a large, colorful tent with flags flying over it—the camp palace. A carpet is rolled out, and two footmen in livery jump to hand the ladies down.
The tent fills as more women arrive, crowding into the canopied rooms hung with crystal chandeliers. The officers pause to eye the ladies, then turn back to their companions to talk of weapons, armor, and horses. Louis paces before his generals, speaking of maneuvers and munitions. He has acquired a warrior look, his skin bronzed by the sun. Petite bows along with all the other courtiers. He glances her way, but does not see her. Turkey carpets, even, Gabrielle says, assessing the rich trappings. It may be lined with Chinese satin, ladies, but it is still a tent, Athénaïs says, squashing a beetle with her toe.
The next morning, the richly attired women mount horses and ride out to the parade ground to witness a review. The colors are unfurled as a military band begins to play. A battalion of foot soldiers and volunteers marches onto the parade ground, the sun glinting off pikes and sabres. Eyes straight ahead, they pass in front of Louis, who, astride a black charger, watches intently. He does not smile or frown, but now and then says something to his secretary, who stands by taking notes.
Reader's Impressions & Star Rating: This chapter is devastating and beautifully controlled. It does not simply pile tragedy on tragedy; it shows how grief changes the shape of a person. Petite's numbness, her ghostlike appearance at the médianoche, and her inability to bond with newborn Marie-Anne are painfully believable. Louis's retreat into war and motion—his need to outrun death—contrasts sharply with Petite's forced stillness. The chapter also deepens the secret world of the Court: hidden births, hidden deaths, hidden grief, while everyone else talks of war, fortune-tellers, and love affairs. I felt the cold of Vincennes, the weight of the corset, the terror of the hidden labor, and the hollow echo of Petite's empty belly. The one weakness is that so much sorrow can become almost unbearable, but that is also the point. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
Next Chapter Prediction: The next chapter will likely follow the growing distance between Petite and Louis as he throws himself into war preparations. With the Spanish campaign approaching, Louis may leave for the front, and Petite may be left behind at Saint-Germain with her frail daughter, her failing health, and her secret grief. Athénaïs's visits and her growing intimacy with the Court—and perhaps with the King's circle—feel like a quiet warning. I predict Petite will either try to reclaim her old role as Louis's companion in the hunt and on horseback, or she will sink further into isolation while another woman begins to fill the space beside the Sun King. Madame la Voisin's shadow may also return, and the passion powder in Petite's keepsake box may become more important than she realizes.
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