# Chapter 33: The White Stallion, the Confession, and the Princess’s Last Breath
Hello everyone, it’s me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 33 of "Mistress Of The Sun free digital audiobook." This is one of those chapters that gathers like a storm behind golden clouds: old magic, old guilt, a wild horse from the past, and a royal deathbed all pressing together until the heart has nowhere left to hide. So settle in, because Petite’s world is about to tilt again.
The chapter opens in a world remade. Where forest once stood, trees now wait in tubs. Where brooks once wandered musically over rocks, fountains shoot arrows of water into the air. Petite walks through this ordered paradise, follows her shadow east, and emerges onto a rutted cart trail. Ducks quack by a pond. Cows graze knee-deep in flowers. Then, through the mist, someone approaches.
It is Azeem, dressed in blue, older now, his skin still smooth, his body heavier with time. He has lost only one tooth, grown a long curly black beard, and he bows before her. Petite’s first fear is for her children, but Azeem tells her at once: it is not about them. It is something else. Something she must see.
He leads her toward the royal stables, and the closer they come, the more the air fills with panic. Yearlings stampede. Broodmares snort and circle their foals. A colt is knocked from its stilt-like legs. A howling dog lies by the gate, struggling to rise. Inside the stables, there is pandemonium. Horses snort in their stalls, necks rigid with fear. Grooms huddle over a bloodied man on the stone floor. At the far end, men shout as they try to secure a thick beam against iron bars.
Then Petite sees him: a rearing White, teeth bared, thick-necked as a stallion, huge and lightning-fast, biting and kicking with fury. It is Diablo. He has been caught in the wild beyond Chaillot, and now no one can get near him. The master of the horse orders a musket. Azeem grabs Petite’s arm, but she only says she wants to look. She stares through the iron bars at the scarred horse—scarred across the chest, the right foreleg, the nose. He looks like an old warrior, the sole survivor of a thousand wars. “Beloved,” she whispers. He pricks his ears, snorts, tosses his head.
He is still fearsome, still savagely beautiful. Petite tells Azeem she must let him smell her. Azeem warns her not to go in. The master of the horse tells the livestock man to shoot. But before the gun can be loaded, and before Azeem can stop her, Petite unbolts the gate and steps into the stall.
The stallion stands in shadow, legs splayed, head lowered, ears pinned back. His chest is slick with sweat and blood. He regards her with a fiery eye. She takes one step. He rears, warning her clearly: do not come near, or I will kill you. Petite bows her head. She crouches against the stall wall and whispers her old creed: I do not slacken, I do not lose my way.
Diablo does not attack her. That is a victory, of sorts. But he is wilder than ever. He will not let her near, threatening to strike if she dares approach. In the days that follow, Petite sits for hours in a corner of his stall. She tempts him with fragrant cut grass, handfuls of grain, bits of fruit. She curls into a ball in the sodden sawdust and holds very still, not breathing. On the last Sunday in June, she tries another way: nickering and blowing, speaking to him in his own language. He turns away, ears flattened. Discouraged, she returns to her rooms, to the suite she shares with Athénaïs. Patience is the companion of wisdom, her father often said. Diablo is stubborn, but so is she.
At the château, Clorine tells her she has a caller. The children are there too—Marie-Anne and Tito—and Clorine is taking them down to the canal. Marie-Anne whispers that there is a priest in the sitting room, and that she told him he could sit, but not in Father’s chair. Then Petite remembers: Abbé Patin, her old tutor from Blois. The Thunderer.
He stands as she enters, wearing a coarse hooded tunic over a cowl, his graying hair covered by a crested linen cap. He looks like a monk—because he is one now. He has inherited a ruined monastery in Soligny-la-Trappe, north of Paris, and became a Cistercian about three years ago. He still rides, still grins impishly, still has a spark of mischief under the habit. He has come to Versailles because he heard she nearly died, and he wanted to tell her himself how relieved he is that she is still among them.
Petite is warmed by him. She has always been able to talk to Abbé Patin openly, and even now, after so much time, that trust remains. She tells him she believes she did die, in fact. She felt a radiant light. She saw her father. And she saw her horse—her beautiful White. Tears spring to her eyes. Strange, she says, don’t you think? The horse has come back to her. The wild stallion everyone talks of. She is confused, and she needs spiritual guidance. Her confessor is more concerned with the King’s pleasure than with her salvation. She needs more than perpetual forgiveness.
Abbé Patin warns her that as her spiritual adviser, he may be called to speak unpleasant truths. She says she understands. Then she asks if he is aware of her situation with the King. It shames her. She fears the Devil. But Abbé Patin hesitates—and then tells her she is mistaken. It is not the Devil she needs to fear.
He has not been entirely candid. He came to Versailles because he has something of concern to tell her. There are rumors among the Religious that magic is being used at Court. Not innocent love charms, but truly evil doings: Black Masses, human sacrifices, poison. Human sacrifices—of a newborn, he says. One prays it is only a story. He asks if she recalls the arrest several years ago of a priest at Saint-Séverin in Paris. Petite only vaguely remembers. Abbé Patin explains: the priest was a wizard, a poisoner, a sorcerer, convicted of demonic practices—blood sacrifice of doves, incantations of the Gospel in the Bois de Boulogne. He was nobility, so he escaped lightly, condemned only to a disciplinary house for priests. But with the help of a diviner in Paris named la Voisin, he escaped and hid in a monastery in Toulouse.
Madame la Voisin, the teller of fortunes. Petite remembers Nicole went to her for love charms. Many ladies of the Court have gone to her, including the Marquise de Montespan. Abbé Patin starts. One of his nephews is a monk in the Toulouse monastery where the wizard-priest hid. The priest was a braggart, apparently. He claimed to have performed rituals for the Marquise—rituals meant to capture the interest of His Majesty. He even boasted that his charms had worked.
Petite puts her head down, taking deep breaths. Athénaïs used sorcery to seduce Louis? She cannot reconcile it. Athénaïs is jealous and spiteful, given to excess, but she is rigorous about her religious devotions, strict about fasting, always observing holy days, never missing Mass. How could someone so meticulous about her faith partake of Satanism? Petite begs the Abbé’s pardon; she gets these attacks now and then. They mean nothing, she says faintly.
Abbé Patin admits he is greatly concerned about the King’s soul. Petite’s eyes tear. Yes. He is concerned about her soul too. He tells her this cannot be a comfortable arrangement for her. She confesses that she feels trapped. Most women in an unhappy situation take the veil, but what convent would have her? Abbé Patin says he is in a position to vouch for her. She worries about her children. He tells her she would still be a mother to them—a better mother, perhaps, a mother who did not live in sin.
Then Petite confesses the thing she has never told anyone. Bone magic. She killed a toad, ground its bones, mixed them with oil, and used the mixture to gentle Diablo. It was a miracle, she says. The horse was vicious, and then, in a moment, he became the gentlest creature imaginable. She began hearing things, seeing the Devil’s face in the night. Not long after, her father died suddenly, and the horse disappeared. Until now.
There is more. After she found out about the Marquise and the King, she wanted to kill Athénaïs. And not long after, she came upon that oil again, in a pin case. She thought she might try it—on Athénaïs, or even on His Majesty. She wanted that power. She wanted to bend them to her will, and she was willing—perfectly willing—to deal with the Devil again to do it. What stopped her? Her daughter. Marie-Anne must have found the pin case in her basket. She nearly drowned. If Petite had lost her… She covers her face. So now Abbé Patin sees. He does.
He tells her what she must do to combat the Devil: what she has just done. Evil is vanquished by bringing it into the light. It is not simple. It takes time and considerable courage. But he knows she is an exceptionally courageous woman. Then the clock chimes. He must go; he is expected in Paris. He takes her hands and tells her they will talk further. But as to that other matter—the Marquise—he says only: be watchful. Do you understand? She does. May God be with you, he says, making the sign of the cross over her.
After he leaves, Petite sits staring into space, relieved by her confession and stupefied by what she has learned. Her thoughts are interrupted by running footsteps. Then Athénaïs enters, closing a Chinese paper parasol, her golden underskirt glittering with diamond knot pins. She says they must leave immediately. Henriette is gravely ill. Marie-Anne adds, with enthusiasm, “Poisoned, Mother.” Petite cautions her, then asks what she has in her mouth. A sweetmeat, the girl says guiltily—Madame Montespan gave it to her. Louis spat his out. Athénaïs offers Petite a coriander comfit. Petite refuses, and pries the sweet from her daughter’s mouth as Marie-Anne squeals in protest.
Athénaïs asks if Petite is all right. She looks pale.
At Saint-Cloud, the courtyard is packed with coaches, drivers, and valets. The King and Queen are already there. Inside, the scene is chaotic. Philippe stands by a window, staring at his wife with a stricken look. Henriette lies stretched on a bed, nightdress open, fiery red hair in disorder. The Queen is on one side. Louis is on the other, clutching Henriette’s hand. Petite knows instantly that the Princess does not have long to live. She looks like a bone-thin cadaver, gaunt and gray.
Louis glances up at Petite and Athénaïs, following them with his eyes. Petite’s throat closes at the anguish in his face. The courtiers pray: “O Lord, we place our beloved Princess under your care and humbly ask that you restore her to health. Amen.” Henriette tells Louis she will not see the dawn. Her face gleams with perspiration, her eyes wild, yet there is a curious acceptance in her voice. Louis tells her that is not true. Petite turns to hide her tears. Henriette is only twenty-six—Petite’s own age exactly.
Athénaïs whispers, asking if she is really dying. Petite says yes. She notices the tiny silver key dangling beside Athénaïs’s cross, with a heart-shaped ring. Athénaïs often wears the cross and key together. It has never occurred to Petite to wonder why. Be watchful.
Athénaïs asks if she thinks Henriette was poisoned. Petite does not know. She thinks how sad it is to be a princess, to die so painfully on a public stage. She makes her way to the musicians and tells them to play a pavane by Aisne. As the music begins, Henriette looks at Petite, her eyes shimmering. Weakly, she raises one hand, signaling the musicians: louder, faster. Petite edges back. Athénaïs whispers that she thinks she is going to be sick.
Louis pulls away from the bed and demands of the doctors, “Are you just going to stand there and let her die?” The musicians stop. Except for Henriette’s groans, the packed room is quiet. The doctors stare down at the floor. Louis returns to Henriette with tears in his eyes. “Don’t weep, Sire,” she says. “You’ll make me weep too.” He tells her to turn to God, kisses her forehead, and pulls away. There is a stir among the courtiers as the King and Queen depart. They know what it signifies.
The next morning, back at Versailles, Petite walks to the stables in the rain. It is warm, and she is protected by a hooded cape. She feels like a monk, walking in the mist, thinking ominous thoughts. Thinking about Henriette, her short, sparkling life, her agonizing death. Thinking about the rumors. Had Henriette been poisoned? It seems impossible, yet fear gives suspicion gravity. A poisoner cannot be seen. Even the weapon is invisible. A person can be poisoned by something on the rim of a cup, or in a glass of wine. Something sprinkled on a coat or wig can turn the skin yellow and make hair fall out, rendering a person unable to speak, even to make final Confession.
The Devil be gone, she whispers, crossing herself quickly, afraid of even thinking such thoughts. The stable courtyard is congested. Coaches, carts, and horses are being readied for the Court’s sudden return to Paris, everything to be draped in black. Petite nods sad acknowledgment to the grooms and enters. She stands at the gate to Diablo’s stall, her hand on the bolt. So many losses, she thinks, tears welling. A paradise turned to Hell.
She glances inside. Diablo stands facing her, small sharp ears upright. She dries her cheeks with the edge of her skirt and slowly—cautiously—steps in. Diablo throws up his head. She stands against the wall. There is beauty in his wildness, in his resistance. She closes her eyes, thinking about her talk with Abbé Patin, her confession. Had that spell been broken?
She hears a soft, throaty nicker and opens her eyes. Diablo takes a step toward her. She closes her eyes again quickly, not daring to look, sensing his approach, his hooves rustling the straw. She feels his warmth. Feels him smelling her arm, her hair, her shoulder. Feels his whiskers tickling her cheek. Weeping, she sniffs. He startles, yet hovers. Petite slowly reaches through her skirts to a crust of bread roll. She holds it out, palm up, waiting. Knowing he will come.
Then the chapter shifts. Petite sits up, roused from troubled sleep. A dream lingers: a royal carriage drawn by eight black horses caparisoned in black velvet and matching plumes. Knights, varlets, henchmen in hoods, water-men and pages accompany a long line of black-draped coaches. Everyone is in mourning. Strangely silent herds of horses, kennels of dogs, carts loaded with cages of monkeys, parrots, and other exotic pets follow at the rear. Peasants follow, scooping up the rich leavings. And at the very end, Diablo—a solitary white figure in a black landscape.
Where is she? Paris, she remembers. But not in her little house facing the Palais Royale gardens. She is in the Tuileries now, in a new suite of elegant rooms—rooms side by side with Athénaïs’s chambers. What year? What season? February, the twenty-seventh year of the King’s reign. Soon it will be Ash Wednesday. Soon Lent.
That morning she tended Diablo, who is kept isolated in a courtyard behind the royal stables near rue Saint-Honoré—a cruel captivity. She tried, yet again, to back him, but he would not have it. In the afternoon Louis came to her, and, still warm from her embrace, he went to Athénaïs. He hinted, in jest of course—of course—that it would be more efficient to have them both together in one bed. “We wouldn’t fit,” Petite joked, for Athénaïs had acquired girth, but his offhand remark distressed her.
It is not yet midnight, judging by the fire still burning in the grate. She feels weighted down with fatigue. Her nights are often sleepless, and what sleep she gets is disturbed by frightening dreams—of a serpent with a woman’s face, her hair swept up in points, of a lean, muscular man in a loincloth, his eyes burning coals. Her days are clouded with troubling thoughts, fears, and suspicions. She has been losing things: an ivory fan, a lace mantilla. The disappearance of her father’s rosary still grieves her. She suspects… and there the chapter leaves us, with suspicion curling around her heart and the reader desperate to know what—or who—has been stealing from her.
## Reader’s Impressions & Star Rating
This chapter is a masterclass in quiet dread and emotional collision. The return of Diablo is breathtaking—both a miracle and a warning. Petite’s confession to Abbé Patin is raw, shameful, and deeply human, and it gives the supernatural thread a painful psychological weight. Then, just when the reader thinks the chapter has spent its darkness, Henriette’s deathbed scene arrives and breaks the heart open again. The final shift to the Tuileries, with its nightmares, lost objects, and unfinished suspicion, is chilling. This is not just plot—it is atmosphere, guilt, and forbidden magic woven into court silk.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
## Next Chapter Prediction
The next chapter will likely dive deeper into the poisoning rumors and Petite’s growing suspicion that someone close to her—perhaps Athénaïs—is using stolen objects for darker purposes. The missing rosary, the ivory fan, and the lace mantilla feel too deliberate to be mere accidents. Abbé Patin’s warning to “be watchful” will echo, and Petite may begin investigating the world of la Voisin, love charms, and Black Masses. At the same time, Henriette’s death will leave the Court in mourning, Louis more guilt-ridden and distant, and Athénaïs more powerful—yet more dangerous. Diablo may remain Petite’s one pure, untamed bond, while the gilded cage around her tightens.
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