# Chapter 34: The Breaking Point – When Love Becomes Chains and Freedom Calls
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing today? I'm so glad you've joined me for another chapter of this incredible journey through "Mistress Of The Sun." Today, we're diving into Chapter 34, and oh my, what a chapter this is! This is the moment everything changes—the moment our beloved Petite finally sees the truth and makes a choice that will alter her life forever. So grab a cozy blanket, settle in, and let's walk through this together.
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The chapter opens in the midst of a bleak and haunted winter. The shadow of Henriette's sudden death still hangs heavy over the court, and despite the autopsy proving she wasn't poisoned, whispers of dark magic refuse to die. The atmosphere is thick with suspicion and fear. There have been no festivals, no celebrations—until now. Carnival has arrived, bringing with it the madness of Mardi Gras and the annual masquerade ball. But for Petite, there is no joy in the festivities. Her heart is heavy, her mind troubled, and her suspicions have taken root.
Petite stands at her window, gazing out at the moonlit gardens, the Rabbit Warren stretching toward the city wall. The night is clear and cold, the moon full and bright. But her peace is shattered by a sound—a cough. A cough that seems to come from behind the "green door," the door that connects her rooms to Athénaïs's chambers. Her heart races. She knows Athénaïs should be out at the gaming tables, not in her rooms at this early hour. Petite is a hunter by nature; she knows how to be still, how to wait in silence, how to listen. And so she waits, her hand clutching her locket—her protection from the Devil—until curiosity and fear drive her to open the door and peer inside.
What she finds is both relief and unease. It's only the parrot—Athénaïs's parrot—sitting on its gilded perch, pecking at a cake, and coughing. Petite leans against the wall, catching her breath, ashamed of her intrusion. She has no right to be here. But the seed of doubt has already been planted, and it will not stop growing.
The next evening, long past midnight, Athénaïs enters Petite's room unannounced, slipping through the green door as if she owns the space. She asks Petite to tie her ribbons and adjust her train, as casually as if nothing has passed between them. Petite does as she is asked, not wanting a scene, but her mind is racing. After Athénaïs leaves, Clorine appears at the door, her face ghastly in the candlelight, and asks who was there. Petite notices her blue jay's wing-feather—the one for her riding hat—is missing. Clorine smirks and guesses the truth: Madame de Montespan was just here. And in that moment, Petite's thoughts turn dark. *I could kill her*, she thinks, wondering what else Athénaïs has taken from her.
That night, Petite makes a decision. She opens the door to what she guesses is Athénaïs's bedchamber and steps inside. What she finds is a world of Oriental voluptuousness—India shawls draped from chandeliers, erotic wall panels, flimsy gowns heaped on the red Turkey carpet, and everywhere, silver. Silvered bed, silvered sofa, silvered toilette table. It is a harlot's boudoir, and yet, perversely, it is also an altar, with candles burning before crosses, statues, and icons. The room is suffocating in its opulence, and Petite feels like a thief.
She searches for her belongings, her eyes scanning the clutter. On the silvered table, she finds a deck of smudged Tarot cards and two half-full glasses of liquor. On the wall, candles drip wax onto a black enamel cabinet—locked. A mirror on the headboard reflects her own startled image back at her, and tangled in the bedclothes, she sees a small leather whip with a silver handle. Mercy, she should never have come.
But then she sees them—necklaces hanging from a silvered peg, including the pendant Athénaïs often wears, the one with the cross and key. The key. With trembling hands, Petite unclasps the pendant and tries the silver key in the lock of the black enamel cabinet. It fits. The mechanism gives way, and she swings open the doors to reveal two sliding shelves. On the top shelf, on a bed of green felt, are locks of hair, a thimble of nail clippings, her head-rail, her blue-striped ribbon, and a tin bracelet she hadn't yet missed. There is also a man's silk hose and a diamond-tipped hat pin—Louis's, perhaps. And shoved into the back, a mess of revolting things: a tiny dried-up heart and what looks like a tangle of entrails and small bones.
On the lower shelf, behind an ornamental brass box and a paper packet, she finds her rosary of wooden beads. *Mary, I thank you*, she breathes, kissing it and draping it around her neck. She opens the paper packet, and a hard blue sweetmeat rolls out. The color is unusual—and then she remembers. Athénaïs gave her one, just before she miscarried. Just before she almost died. Trembling, Petite opens the heavy brass box. Ashes. She takes the pendant, the packet, and the brass box, locks the cabinet, and creeps back to her rooms. "Damnation!" the parrot squawks after her.
Back in her own bedchamber, Petite pushes a chair against the door and hides her discoveries behind the four leather volumes of Virgil in her bookcase. She prays—in gratitude, in fear—and curls up in her bed, clasping her father's rosary to her throat.
The next day, she summons Abbé Patin. She is trembling, her courage failing, but she tells him everything. She tells him about the comfit, about the miscarriage, about the herbalist who identified the chama epitys—ground pine—an abortive so strong it can kill. She shows him the brass box from Saint-Séverin church, the ashes inside. Human ashes, the herbalist thought. And likely from a Black Mass. Abbé Patin is grave. He warns her that she is in a time of danger, that this is the Devil's realm. Petite covers her face with her hands. As a child, she imagined the Devil as a monster with a scaly tail and pointed teeth. She never guessed he might lurk in the cold, calculating heart of a beautiful woman.
Later, Petite approaches Louis. He is relaxed, satisfied after taking his pleasure of her, and she seizes the moment. She tells him about the comfit, about the abortive, about Athénaïs giving it to her. She tells him Athénaïs came at her with a knife, that she is practicing black magic—on him. But Louis will not hear it. He stiffens, then stands, his face hardening. He calls her suggestion absurd. He defends Athénaïs, saying she has rages but that blowing up in a temper is not the same as giving someone poison. When Petite persists, he raises his fist—a threat—then presses it to his forehead in frustration. "You must abide," he says, his voice tremulous. "Athénaïs loves you like a sister." Petite makes a noise of contempt. "Oh, for God's sake, you make her sound like a devil," he snaps, and slams the door behind him.
Petite sits in the silence, her fingers trembling on the cold marble of her vanity. She hears a voice faintly sing, "...and with fear and trembling stand." And in that moment, she knows. It's over. The finality of that realization gives her strength. There is only one path now, and she knows the way. She picks up a small blue jar, dry as the single leaf on the twig wedged into her mirror frame. She breaks off the leaf, crumbles it, and then opens her wooden keepsake box. She withdraws the moth-eaten scarf—the one that saved her life in the river—and uses it to dry her tears before throwing it into the fire.
The scene shifts to the Colbert household, where the nursery is chaotic with preparations for a Mardi Gras fete. Petite visits her children, little Tito dressed as an admiral and Marie-Anne in a sparkling faerie costume. Marie-Anne, with the brutal honesty of a child, calls her mother a strumpet. Petite's heart breaks, but she kneels and tells them she loves them very much and that they have nothing to be ashamed of. Madame Colbert ushers the children away and offers Petite a cordial, but Petite declines. She must be going. She embraces Madame Colbert, grateful for the loving home her children have found.
Before leaving, Petite visits Diablo, the white horse she loves. He is aging, caged in a small enclosure, and the master of the horse wants to pit him against lions for public entertainment. It breaks her heart to see him thus. She cups his whiskery muzzle and apologizes for having nothing for him. Then she takes the river road back to the palace, avoiding the Mardi Gras procession. She watches the boats on the Seine and thinks of that long-ago morning when she went to the river. *Gone to the river*. What happened? She still cannot recall. What she remembers is feeling so desperately miserable that she no longer wished to live. And now? Now she is even more miserable.
Back in her rooms, Petite announces to Clorine that she will not be going to the ball. She asks for a herbal concoction and is dressed for bed. She lies in the dark, listening to the revelries outside, waiting. After the night watchman calls eleven, after she is sure Clorine has retired, she rises. She wraps herself in a woolen shawl, lights candles, and sits at her escritoire. She writes a letter to Clorine—not a farewell, but instructions for the future. She sprinkles sand on the ink and folds the paper, placing it in the center of her desk. *For Clorine*.
She considers writing to Louis. She loves him—still—but she does not love the man he has become. Had Athénaïs worked a spell on him? Or had he always been thus, and she blinded? She decides not to write. She is too angry, too bereft. She pulls a rocking chair close to the fire and sits, rocking, indifferent to the celebrations below, waiting for the sun to rise. She knows what she wants now: to be free of sin. To be free of the Court, of Athénaïs... and yes, of the King. *I can't live without your love*, she had once told him. But now she knows she must.
At the first hint of light, Petite dresses and gathers her treasures: her rosary, her locket, the worn copy of Saint Teresa's *Life*. She puts on her hooded fur-lined cloak and slips out into the cold, littered streets. Drunken revelers call out to her, but she ignores them, heading toward the stable yards. Diablo stands against the red light of dawn, beautiful as ever. She climbs onto the stone wall, kicks off her mules, and opens the gate. As Diablo bolts, she slips onto his back, clutching his mane. He bucks, but she holds on. "Easy, boy," she whispers, half laughing. It feels wonderful to be on him again.
She rides him through the streets, past early-morning workers who watch in awe, past an old woman who waves her cane and cheers. At Saint-Roch cathedral, she guides him into the Rabbit Warren and toward the river. They race down the river road, the air cold and fresh, the dawn light sparkling on the gray water. The city wall, the porte de Conférence, is ahead. The barrier is down, and there are coaches and people waiting. "Go," she whispers, and Diablo surges over the high barrier. *Sing ye!*
They race along the Seine, the river on one side, farms and woodlands on the other, rushing by in a blur. Petite sits back, and Diablo slows to a relaxed canter. It hadn't been a dream. She guides him to an isolated hillock and halts. She falls forward onto his neck, feeling his warmth, smelling his clean horse scent. She recalls being a girl, lying thus, thinking of what a miracle it was, such trust. Now they are both older, both scarred. Both in need of rescue, salvation.
She slides down from his back. He is free now. He could run—yet he stands. He turns his head to her, his eyes—now blue, now dark, now flashing a hint of red—all-seeing, all-knowing. She presses her forehead to his. *Am I doing the right thing?* she asks herself. *Yes*, her heart answers. There will be pain, the pain of loss—but she already knows such pain. She will always love Louis, love the good man at his core, the man hidden behind the King's mask. She sees that man still, laughing with their children. Their children.
Petite falls to her knees in the grass, her head pressed into her fists. *How could she do this? O God, help me.* Diablo sniffs her back, his breath warm on her neck. She sits up. *I could turn back*, she thinks. Be the mistress mother, the strumpet. Athénaïs's handmaiden. *No*. She cannot. No longer. She cannot live that lie. Will not. *Nolo, nolebam, nolam.*
She imagines life in a convent—the peace of that existence. Her aunt Angélique's prayers would be answered. The children would come to visit, her mother, her brother and his giddy wife. Abbé Patin—of course. There would be bouquets of flowers and dishes of sugar-plums. There would be song.
And Louis? What would become of her children's father? There is so much that is good in him, so much that is strong and true; and yet such profound weakness. Petite will pray for him, pray that he resist Athénaïs's lure, see her for who she is. She is powerless to do more. She must leave the rest to God.
She lies back on the grass, looking up at the sky, listening to Diablo munching weeds nearby, listening to the sounds of the world awaking. A solitary church bell rings, its sound pure, resonating in the clear morning air. A flock of birds takes flight. Sin is in her; she knows that. She made a pact with the Devil; she is his. That will never change. But she will not give way this time. She will continue on her path. "Nec cesso, nec erro," she says out loud: I do not slacken, I do not lose my way.
She stands and brushes off her cloak. Diablo raises his head and looks at her. She takes out a crust of bread she had hidden away in her pocket. Holding it out, she smiles through her tears. He reaches out his long neck, and she strokes his ears. "Ready, old man?" They have a distance yet to go.
She pulls herself up onto his back. The river water sparkles in the morning sun. *Gone to the river*. Her breath quickens as she remembers looking down into the dark water. What had saved her? What is saving her now? She nudges Diablo forward. At the river road, he breaks into a vigorous trot, then leaps into a canter. Her cap flies off and her curls come loose. The morning air feels fresh on her cheeks.
She remembers, as a child, watching the Romany woman on horseback, standing on the cantering horse, her arms outstretched. But mostly she remembers the breathless excitement she had felt, her heartfelt wonder, believing that the world was before her. And now, again: the world is before her.
Diablo's canter is steady, his back broad. *Now?* she asks herself. She grabs mane with one hand and steadies herself on his shoulder with the other. *Yes*. Slowly, she brings her feet up under her, crouching. Diablo flicks back one ear but holds his steady pace. And then—slowly, slowly—she stands, balanced, and reaches out her arms.
Oh, the wind!
At Chaillot, just beyond the convent, Petite slips back down onto Diablo's back and slows him to a walk. "Ho, boy," she says, sliding off him. She has done it! He turns his nose to her, and she strokes his nose, his muzzle, his ears. She stands for a long while, her face pressed into his neck, running her hands over him. *O Lord, this beautiful horse is your creation, please look over him, protect him. Amen.*
It is time. Soon the river road will become congested. "Go," she commands, her heart aching. Diablo startles but does not move. She slaps him on the haunches. "Go," she repeats, with more urgency. He has to run, escape. He twirls but turns toward her again in confusion. She breaks a branch off a bush and shakes it at him. "Go!" she begs, weeping. He trots off reluctantly, flicking his tail, but snorts and turns again to face her, his ears pricked forward. She waves the branch, whipping it through the air with whistling sounds. *Go! Go!* He rears up and twirls, bucking and twisting, and canters off.
At the crest of a hillock, he stands motionless, sniffing the air. He raises his head and whinnies. From a distance, a horse answers. Shadows appear at the edge of a far meadow: horses. With a jump and a buck, Diablo races into the hills, his long tail high and waving.
*Beloved.*
The convent bells begin to ring. Petite watches in rapt wonder until Diablo disappears from sight. *A horse in the wild is a beautiful thing*, Louis had once said. Yes, she thinks, turning toward the iron gate of the convent, toward freedom.
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The chapter ends with an epilogue, dated June 6, 1710, written by Marie-Anne, now grown. She receives word that her mother is dying and rushes to her side at the convent in Chaillot. She reflects on her mother's life, on her father's refusal to speak of her, on the flowers he still sends every morning. She arrives just in time to hold her mother as she passes, and she stays the night. The next day, the convent is inundated with humble people who revered Petite as a saint, bringing their reliquaries to touch her hands, her forehead, her lips. Sister Nicole gives Marie-Anne her mother's father's wooden rosary and a brass locket on a gold chain. Inside the locket is a strand of white horsehair, a lock of fine baby hair, and some decayed matter. Marie-Anne fastens the chain around her mother's neck. *Sleep, little one.*
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## Reader's Impressions & Star Rating
Oh my goodness, what a chapter! This is the chapter where everything breaks open—where Petite finally sees the truth and finds the courage to act. The tension is almost unbearable as she enters Athénaïs's chambers, the discovery of her belongings, the sweetmeat, the ashes, the Black Mass evidence. My heart was pounding the entire time! And then the confrontation with Louis—that devastating moment when he refuses to believe her, when he defends the woman who nearly killed her. I felt Petite's pain so deeply in that scene.
But the most beautiful, transcendent part of this chapter is Petite's escape with Diablo. The way she frees him, the way she stands on his back and reaches out her arms—it's pure poetry. It's the moment she reclaims her freedom, her wildness, her self. And the epilogue, with Marie-Anne holding her mother as she dies, the locket with the horsehair and baby hair—it brought tears to my eyes. This is storytelling at its finest.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ **Rating: 5.0 / 5 Stars**
This chapter is a masterpiece of emotional storytelling, weaving together betrayal, heartbreak, and ultimate liberation. It's the payoff we've been waiting for, and it delivers beyond all expectations.
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## Next Chapter Prediction
While this chapter felt like a powerful conclusion, the epilogue leaves me wondering if there might be more to explore. The locket with the white horsehair and baby hair hints at secrets Petite carried to her grave. Was the decayed matter from her miscarriage? Was the baby hair from the child she lost? And what of Louis—did he ever learn the truth about Athénaïs? Did he ever regret letting Petite go?
If there is a next chapter, I predict we might see a final reckoning—perhaps a flashback to the moment Louis learned the truth, or a scene showing Athénaïs's downfall. The epilogue mentions that Athénaïs's entrails were thrown to pigs, so we know she met a gruesome end. Perhaps the next chapter will show us how that came to pass.
But more than that, I hope we might see a glimpse of Petite's life in the convent—her peace, her prayers, her visits from her children. And perhaps, in the end, she found the salvation she sought. The world was before her, and she chose freedom. That is a story worth telling to the very end.
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