The Sunflowers: A Novel of the Sun King's Court

Prelude: Louise

When the King has called her into his privy chamber, Louise Renée de Kéroualle had been hopeful, and her aunt had been exhilarated. "Finally!" she exclaimed. "Finally, you've caught the King's eye! If you're very clever, and very charming, you can displace that horrible La Montespan as his maîtresse-en-titre! Think of what that would mean for our family!"
Louise knew very well what it could mean for her family. It was why her father had sent her to her aunt's to be educated to begin with, and why her aunt had brought her to court: to catch the King's eye and become his mistress, thereby raising her family from its obscure noble state to something greater. She herself could become a duchesse, and her father's debts would not only be paid, but he would receive more honors than he could ever imagine!
With her aunt's careful direction, Louise carefully dressed in a dark blue silk gown that flattered her coloring, with lace at the collar and on the sleeves. Her dark chestnut hair was meticulously curled and arranged, with several loose curls framing her face. Aunt Suzanne dotted some vermilion onto her cheeks and lips, to bring out a natural flush, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. "There!" she exclaimed. "How lovely you look! Now wear those pearl earbobs and he will hardly be able to resist you!"
After borrowing some of her aunt's rose perfume, she was whisked out of their pokey little rooms in the garret of the palace by some of the king's guards and led down several flights of marble stairs to the main floor of the palace, through gilt rooms and corridors to the King's privy chamber, where he sat at a desk, staring down at a map of both France and Flanders, and the Spanish king's holdings in Holland, and, or at least she thought she saw, England to the northwest.
He looked up from the map, then stood up to acknowledge her. She fell to her knees in a curtsey, bowing her head deferentially, not rising to her feet until the King bade her to. He came to her, taking her hand, helping her to stand. She was surprised to see that, up close, he wasn't that tall, perhaps a few inches taller than she. But it was the way he carried himself, with such confidence, with the gravity of a man who had been chosen by God to rule France, that made him seem to be a greater man than he was.
"Mademoiselle de Kéroualle," he said, the corners of his lips turning up into a smile. His face bore an expression of paternal benevolence, as though he regarded her as his daughter and not a possible lover. "Thank you so much for coming on such a short notice."
"Oh, you're very welcome, Your Majesty," she replied breathlessly. The heady smell of cloves and rosewater made her slightly dizzy. She thought that she might swoon...
His brow furrowed in concern. "Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, forgive my inhospitality. Please, allow me to conduct you to a chair..."
And just like that, he took her hand, and led her toward one of the chairs close to his desk. Louise felt as though she was floating on a cloud, his scent enveloping her, his strong hand guiding her through her reverie to the chair close to his desk. "There now, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, sit. Is that better?"
She followed his instructions, and took her seat in the chair, arranging her skirts strategically so that he might catch a glimpse of her trim ankles. It seemed that he had; he was watching her as he went toward his seat at the desk again, and he looked up at her, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"Oh, yes!" she said, once she had found her voice, fluttering her lashes and averting her dark gaze from his. "You are much too kind, Your Majesty. Thank you ever so much!"
He inclined his head, sitting down in the chair, his eyes not leaving her. "You have been in the service of Madame, the Duchesse d'Orléans, these past few months, haven't you, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle?"
She nodded emphatically. She had entered Madame's household just a few months ago, with the intervention of a friend of her aunt's, and her prospects had become much more promising. Henriette-Anne d'Orléans had been born a princess of England, but had been spirited away to France after the execution of her father, King Charles I, and was as much a French princess as her mother had been. It was rumored that the former queen of England, Henrietta Marie, had wanted a marriage between the King and the young princess without a country, but Queen Anne of Austria had vehemently opposed it, steering her son into marriage with the Spanish Infanta instead. The young English princess had still made a good match, with her cousin, Philippe, Duc d'Orléans, taking on the rank of Madame to his Monsieur. She might not have married the King, but she would remain close to him, just as they both might have wanted.
"Yes," Louise said, "and she has been very kind to me, as she is to all of her ladies." Including Mademoiselle Cecile d'Aubront, a little nobody whom Louise viewed as an interloper ever since she had joined Madame's household, and Mademoiselle Marguerite de St. Leon, the niece of the court usurer, the Comte de St. Leon, who had only gotten into Madame's household under the influence of a courtier who owed her uncle a debt.
"That is a pleasure to hear," the King said, his eyes resting on Louise. "She had always been kind, my sister-in-law. A rare creature in this world."
Louise didn't know what to say to that, but instead waited to the King to continue.
"You and two of her ladies are to travel with her to Dover in a few days," the King went on, sweeping well-manicured fingers across the map on his desk to England. England, across the sea. "And from there to Whitehall, to my cousin, her brother, King Charles II. Tell me, what do you know of my cousin, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle?"
Louise swallowed, then folded her hands into her lap, the silk of her skirt smooth against her palms. "I know that he is very clever, Your Majesty – as clever as you – and that he does enjoy the amusements that the court has to offer as much as you do. You are much alike."
"Very much alike, save for one thing." The King placed his arms on the rests of the chair, leaning back, but still managing to sit as straight as he normally would. He sits like a king, Margot had hissed into her ear once during dinner. Everything he does, it befits his station. Margot, so self-possessed, so careful with her words, who reported everything back to her uncle. And Cecile, stupid, insipid little thing, danced and flirted with the Chevalier de Lorraine and exchanged double entendres like a little flipperty-gibbert, while her mother, a woman whose ambitions for her daughter lent her the nose of a hound and the eyes of a hawk for sniffing and seeking opportunity, coached her on what to say, while she rendezvoused wtih.
"And what is that, monsieur?"
"A weakness." A corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. "A weakness for pretty, witty faces."
Louise felt the blood drain from her face. Surely...surely he didn't mean.... Oh, Cecile! Cecile, for all of her wit, who was nothing! And Margot, who was much too clever to fall into any man's trap!
"You will be well compensated for it, I can assure you of that. Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, would you like to serve your country, your king, and your God?"
And in spite of the questions spinning around in her mind, Louise de Kéroualle replied, "Yes."