# Chapter 32: The Green Door and the Price of Grace
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 32 of "Mistress Of The Sun free digital audiobook". Oh my dear listeners, what a chapter we have before us. This is one of those chapters that grips your heart and refuses to let go, where the weight of sacrifice, the fragility of the body, and the strange mysteries of faith and love all collide in the most extraordinary way. So pour yourself something warm, settle into your favorite chair, and let me guide you through this deeply moving and transformative segment of our beloved story.
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We begin in a place of spiritual torment, with our dear Petite pouring out her anguished soul to a priest. Her body is betraying her in cruel and unpredictable ways — one day she can walk for hours, the next she cannot manage even a single step. The complications have been mounting: irregular menses, pain in her leg, difficulty reading in hot weather, and sometimes she cannot even control an embroidery needle. These are the signs of something deeper wrong, whispers of the body's slow unraveling. But it is not her physical suffering that troubles her most — it is her conscience. "Even so, I cannot forgive," she confesses, and we feel the weight of those words.
The priest, sitting in that creaky wooden chair, offers her counsel that is both profound and troubling. He tells her that the person she speaks of — the King himself — is anointed by God. In giving him comfort, she does not sin. And here comes the knife's edge of the advice: the same principle applies in allowing him comfort. This is the Church's blessing on an arrangement that will tear Petite's heart in two. The priest tells her she must be like the blind beggar on the corner, with Love as her stick to guide her. "The Lord will fill your cup, or not. It is not your province to understand, only to have faith. You have mistaken the true nature of your pain, both spiritual and physical. It is a gift from God. Be joyful, and give thanks."
Can you imagine hearing those words? That your suffering, your jealousy, your broken heart — all of it is a gift? My dear listeners, Petite does not feel joyful. She covers her mouth to stifle a sob. And yet, she will accept this cross, because what choice does she have?
Now we follow Petite to the château at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where the smell of fresh paint still hangs in the air. The scene is set with devastating precision. The renovated rooms have been divided into two apartments: one for Athénaïs and one for Petite, with a secret green door connecting them. This is the architecture of betrayal, disguised as accommodation. When Louis visits Athénaïs, he will come and go through Petite's rooms, and the courtiers will assume he is with her, the official maîtresse en titre. Petite must play the role of the contented mistress while her lover is with another woman just beyond a thin green door.
She instructs Clorine to regard Athénaïs as family, to be gracious about this diabolical arrangement. Poor Clorine glares at that green-painted door, and who can blame her? She sees what this is doing to her mistress. Petite tells herself that Louis loves her truly, and that the man who visits Athénaïs is not really Louis, but that other man — the King. It is a psychological trick to survive the unbearable, and yet we know it can only hold for so long.
Louis arrives that very morning after Mass, restless and unsettled, picking up a marble vase and examining it for flaws. He tells Petite he hopes she and the Marquise will be happy together, that he would be most content if they could be friends again. Petite's dish of tea clatters as she sets it down. More and more is required of her, always more. He explains that it would look suspect if there appeared to be any ill feeling between them. And then he clears his throat and asks about the birthing. Twins, he tells her — a boy and a girl, but the boy stillborn. The girl is with a nursemaid in Paris, everything very hush-hush. "It's a wonder I even know," Louis says with a shrug. And when Petite graciously asks about the mother, Louis glances at the clock and says he should go see her.
Oh, the pain of that moment! To ask after the health of the woman who has taken your place, to do it with grace, while the man you love is already looking at the clock, eager to leave your presence to be with her. My heart aches for Petite.
Athénaïs shows up unexpectedly at Petite's Saturday-night reception, fatigue visible in her eyes. The Duchesse de Nemours exclaims, "Why, if it isn't the goddess herself!" And Petite feels sympathy for this woman who has borne the King's children in secret. "How are you managing?" she asks. "Barely," Athénaïs replies. Both of them are trapped in a cage of Louis's making.
Then we see Petite trying so desperately to make her time with Louis pleasant. She lights candles, hires musicians from Lully's protégés, and arranges for their two children to be present. Little Marie-Anne, only two and a half, spirited and irresistible with her dark almond eyes, is being coached to curtsy and kiss the King on the cheek. "It's prickly," the child complains about Louis's beard, and we cannot help but smile through our tears at this domestic scene. Tito, the baby who was feared might never walk, takes his first steps, and Louis applauds, genuinely delighted. For a moment, they are a family, a happy family.
But the moment passes. Louis puts down his glass, careful to place a cup doily under it, and says, "I'm sorry, my love, but I have to go. I'm expected." And Petite says, "I understand," her heart aching. Oh, how well she understands.
The weeks pass, and Clorine notices that things are going missing — a spangled head-rail, tooth powder. She suspects Athénaïs, tilting her head toward the green door. "Why would Madame la Marquise want tooth powder... or a head-rail for that matter?" Petite asks. But Clorine knows. Athénaïs is collecting trophies, relics of her rival, perhaps to understand her or perhaps to diminish her. It is petty and strange and deeply human.
Before long, Athénaïs is pregnant again — "bagged," as Clorine puts it with disgust. Louis does not tell Petite directly. Instead, he talks of the children, the Dauphin, hunting, horses and dogs. Then, with that characteristic sigh, he says, "I'd best check on the Marquise." Soon after, there is the sound of china breaking through the walls. The violence of their passion echoes through the green door.
For comfort, Louis turns to Petite. Their lovemaking becomes "comfortable," predictable, routine. But Petite wants more. She orders a provocative gown of fine silk, a fan of vermilion ostrich feathers, ornaments her curls with pearls and ribbons. She sends Clorine to Paris for Venetian brocades, hand-painted stockings, and — her cheeks flaming — a certain forbidden book. Clorine returns, scandalized, holding a book that is not Latin but French, with words she is happy not to know. Petite reads it by candlelight, avoiding the gaze of the Virgin, and the words burn through her: cunt, clit, bliss. She is trying to reignite a fire that Louis has allowed to dim.
Then comes the news that changes everything. Petite has missed her second month. She is pregnant again, and this time there is no nausea, her health is strong, and she is enjoying her fullness. Clorine frowns. "I hate to think what's going to happen when she finds out."
And find out she does.
We are jolted awake in the middle of the night by a scream — not the horse's cry that haunts Petite's dreams, but a woman's cry. A door slams. Athénaïs bursts into the room with a knife raised, Louis close behind her. "I'll murder her," Athénaïs hisses, and Louis lunges for her hand. The knife clatters to the floor. "And you too, you miserable excuse of a man!" she cries, trying to wrench free. "Swamp scum! Pig of filth! You son of a bitch!" Louis holds her, murmuring "Quiet" as if soothing a child, and sends the servants away with a single commanding word. He ushers Athénaïs out, sending Petite a look of exhausted relief.
Petite is left standing there, holding a rusted trench-knife, dazed. "Athénaïs just tried to kill me," she says shakily. She places the knife on her bedside table and crawls back under the covers, her baby fluttering within her. Clorine sleeps in the room that night.
The next morning, Louis returns, looking as if he has not slept. Athénaïs is tranquil now, he reports, pacing before the fire. Blucher gave her vervain water and confined her to bed. "She wants to see you," he says.
Petite looks at him in disbelief. "Louis, she tried to kill me."
"She wouldn't have hurt you. Not really."
"Louis, I'm not—"
"This is not a request I make lightly, Louise. She's in danger of losing the child. Just call on her. It would only be for a few minutes — that's all I ask."
And so, Petite walks through the green door. Athénaïs's rooms are opulent, Oriental in style, everything red — the bed curtains, the carpet, the headboard, even the crystal chandelier draped in crimson gauze. A small gray parrot with a gold ring around its leg perches on the headboard, watching Petite with steady, weaving eyes.
Athénaïs lies propped up against red silk cushions, a bed-tray on her knees. She apologizes, claims she does not know what came over her. She offers Petite sweetmeats, shows her the blue mint candy, sticks out her tongue. But Petite does not smile. She takes a candy and sucks on it. "You're angry," Athénaïs observes. "You came at me with a knife," Petite replies. Athénaïs reaches for her hand, but Petite pulls back. "I love you. I'm sorry. Truly."
And then Athénaïs says something that cuts to the bone: "This arrangement isn't easy for either of us. You'd think he had a goddamn harem — a harem of two." Both of us with child, Petite thinks. Like broodmares with a stallion. "And Queen makes three," Athénaïs adds cheerily, raising her glass.
"I don't feel well," Petite says, abruptly rising.
She goes back to her apartment and straight to bed. By the time Blucher arrives, it is clear she is miscarrying. Six and a quarter hours later, the ordeal is over. She had wanted this child. She wanted this child so much.
On the third day, Petite begins to run a fever. On the fourth, she suffers visions. The surface of things gives way, and demons emerge from the shadows, their reptilian tails flicking, eyes glowing. "Lord, punish me not," she prays. Clorine applies cooling compresses and prays out loud. Blucher explains to Louis, "This happens, Your Majesty. The bringing forth of fruit before it is ripe causes disorder." Louis asks if she is in danger. "Yes, Your Majesty." He calls in his doctors, who call in two more — grave men in black robes and tall pointed hats. They agree on only one thing: she is dying.
Soon Petite is surrounded by men in black — priests on one side of her bed, doctors on the other. The smell of incense fills the room. The doctors bow out. Blucher tells Louis, "There is nothing more we can do." Louis returns to Petite's bedside, presses her hand to his lips. "I must leave you," he says. She looks into his soft hazel eyes. I loved you. Once upon a time. He lays his head on her belly, his back heaving. She runs her fingers through his hair. "Go," she whispers. A king must not be present when Death was near, not when the Devil was known to hover.
And then, something extraordinary happens.
Petite looks down at her body. She is lying on the daybed, her mouth hanging open, her eyes open too, but unseeing. She is in her old chemise, the worn one edged at the neck with laces made by her aunt Angélique. One foot, the misshapen left one, is exposed. Clorine is on her knees by the bed, sobbing her heart out. "I've died," Petite thinks with surprise. She feels clear, like the sparkling of a crystal. She looks about the room at the dusty candelabra, her beloved books, the statue of the Virgin on the prie-dieu.
Then, as if in a fever, she seems to see the walls give way, and behind them is her father walking toward her, leading Diablo through a flowering meadow. He is wearing his stained leather jerkin. "It's not yet time, little one," he tells her, and turns away.
Petite follows a winding path across the meadow. She pauses, reveling in the sounds of the crickets and bees, a solitary songbird singing. Clusters of butterflies zigzag over tall grasses, waving in a breeze. She surveys the hills in the distance, the arc of the sun. It has been a long time since she has come this way, beyond the realm of the Court. Beyond the sound of hammers on stone, the whirling dust, the army of workers cursing, pushing wheelbarrows, cart wheels screeching. Beyond the reach of the stone monument Versailles was becoming. Had become.
She comes to a solitary apple tree, ancient and gnarled, one low branch splintered and reaching to the ground. She remembers this tree. She remembers reaching for its fruit, taking a bite, the flesh crisp and sweet. Long ago. She remembers handing an apple to Louis. He had laughed, juice on his chin. She remembers the passion of their embrace. Had passion corrupted them? she wonders. Corrupted him? Had passion led Louis into the Devil's realm of insatiable desire? It looked as if deer had nested under the tree — or possibly unicorn, though they were rare. The apples are small yet. She picks one touched with rose, but it is too tart to eat.
She remembers watering horses at a stream nearby and spots the path into the woods. Entering the cool of the shade, she hears water, smells the fragrant wild mint that often clings to mossy banks. She follows the path through ferns to a stream overhung with tree branches, its banks flowered with purple loosestrife. There, she crouches and drinks deeply, then plunges her face into the clear water. Gone to the river. Sitting back, drying her face with her skirt, she notices horse tracks in the mud — wild horses, possibly, for they are not shod. And rabbit, of course. Deer. A hunter's paradise, she had called it. Our paradise, he had said.
And there the chapter ends, with Petite suspended between life and death, between memory and vision, between the world of the Court and a meadow of the soul.
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## Reader's Impressions & Star Rating
My dear listeners, I must be honest with you — this chapter left me breathless and weeping. The way the author weaves together the physical decay of Petite's body with the spiritual crisis of her soul is nothing short of masterful. We watch a woman who has given everything — her body, her dignity, her very self — for love of a king, and we watch that love slowly poison her. The green door is not just a door; it is a symbol of the betrayal that has become the architecture of her life.
The attempted stabbing by Athénaïs is shocking, yes, but what is more shocking is Louis's response. He asks Petite to visit the woman who just tried to kill her, because that woman might lose her child. And Petite, broken and obedient, goes. She walks through the green door and sits with her rival, accepting sweetmeats and apologies, while her own child dies inside her. The irony is devastating.
But it is the final sequence that truly elevates this chapter to greatness. Petite's death — or near-death — is rendered with such beauty and clarity that it feels like a portal to another world. Her father appearing in the meadow, telling her it is not yet time. The apple tree, the stream, the wild horses. These are not random images; they are the touchstones of her life, the memories that define her. And through them, she begins to understand something about passion, about corruption, about the nature of love itself.
The prose is exquisite. The pacing is perfect. The emotional arc is devastating. This is storytelling at its finest.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ **Rating: 5.0 / 5 Stars**
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## Next Chapter Prediction
Oh, my dear listeners, what awaits us in the next chapter? Petite has been given a second chance — "It's not yet time, little one" — but what will she do with it? Will she return to the Court, to the green door, to the arrangement that is killing her soul? Or will this near-death experience change her in fundamental ways?
I predict that Petite will survive, but she will not be the same. She has seen beyond the veil. She has walked in the meadow with her father and drunk from the stream. She has remembered who she was before she became the King's mistress. And when she wakes, she will have a choice to make: continue to be the passive, accommodating woman who covers for Louis and Athénaïs, or become someone new.
I also suspect that Louis's reaction to her illness will be revealing. He left her bedside when told she was dying, because a king must not be present when Death is near. But will he regret that? Will he realize what he has lost, or nearly lost? And what of Athénaïs? She is pregnant again, and she is volatile. The dynamic between these two women — both mothers of the King's children, both trapped in the same gilded cage — is bound to explode.
And what of the forbidden book, the provocative gown, the vermilion feathers? Will Petite continue to fight for Louis's attention, or will she let him go? The meadow vision suggests that she is being called to something deeper, something beyond the Court, beyond passion, beyond even love.
I cannot wait to find out. But until then, my friends, I remain your humble narrator, ever grateful for your company on this journey.
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