King of Fools

CHANCE...

Living alone on the streets of Paris has forced Jordani Dani Lismore to make risky decisions to survive, including the abuse he withstands from city guards in exchange for money and protection. Dani works during the day as a street performer, and at night...he does whatever is required. He fears this is all his life will ever amount to, and while he knows wishing for more is a foolish pursuit, he can’t help himself when it comes to the delicious Jean Bellegarde.

OR FATE

Jean Bellegarde bristles against the demands of his imperious father, a comte who insists Jean assume his duties and obligations to take his rightful place in society. When Jean falls for Dani, life becomes complicated in every way. Loving another man in 18th century France can end badly for them both, and Jean can’t promise himself to an orphan without causing major waves in the noble court and shaming his family. But desire is stronger than his birthright, and the idea of loving and being loved becomes more important than those who control him and his Dani.



KING OF FOOLS

Justine Ferko

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

KING OF FOOLS

Copyright © 2018 Justine Ferko

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-948029-38-4

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

To the DC group, instrumental in building my writing confidence.

To Branden, for the patient help and support.

To my parents, for always knowing I could.

To both of my amazing French teachers.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It is with great honor that I thank my parents and family members for encouraging me without fail in my journey as an author. They never had any doubts in their minds that I could, even in times when I did. Without their support and patience, I may never have put my works out into the world.

I’d also like to pay special thanks to the DC group (yes, all of you. You know who you are). Without you, the transition to adulthood would have been entirely miserable, and I know that my writing improved a hundred fold because of all of you. Your constant support of me and one another, and the enthusiasm for everyone’s projects, fueled me through many long nights of writing. I love you all.

I’d also like to acknowledge my dear Johann, for being a good bit of Bardic inspiration for this book in particular. My first beta reader, you got me over that finish line, so here’s the final product, thanks to you.

Finally, to my French teachers. Though everyone said I ought to take Spanish, I went with my gut and took French through all my high school years, and was inspired by your enthusiasm for the language and culture. I still try to practice my fluency, so thank you for baking that enthusiasm into your grammar lessons.

CONTENTS

Chapitre 1

Chapitre 2

Chapitre 3

Chapitre 4

Chapitre 5

Chapitre 6

Chapitre 7

Chapitre 8

Chapitre 9

Chapitre 10

Chapitre 11

Chapitre 12

Chapitre 13

Chapitre 14

Chapitre 15

Chapitre 16

Chapitre 17

Chapitre 18

Chapitre 19

Chapitre 20

Chapitre 21

Chapitre 22

Chapitre 23

Épilogue

About the Author

KING OF FOOLS

CHAPITRE 1

LE GARÇON DANS LA RUE

It is with heavy steps that two guardsmen traipse through the cobblestone streets of Paris. The night is young, still not yet fully dark, and their armors gleam in the dusky light. They pause in their route, just at the edge of a small crowd that has gathered at the side of the street. A flash of color brightens the front of the crowd, accompanied by the brilliant sounds of a joyful flute and tambourine. There are two musicians eagerly playing away for the crowd, drawing the ear, and near them is what draws the eye.

A young man of nineteen, small for his age, twirls with a colorful sash in each hand, glittering with gold jewelry that is sparse but real. He leaps upon a nearby crate to be better seen, kicking his feet to the delight of onlookers. He’s thin, but they don’t seem to care, enthralled by his olive skin, his outlandish clothes, his bright energy. The ending of the song brings applause, and the boy bows theatrically, profusely and sincerely thanking those who donate a few coins. Once the crowd dissipates, the boy takes the hat that holds the coins and splits the earnings with the musicians, speaking jovially with them as though they know one another well.

When most of the onlookers have left, the two guards make their way over, and the boy doesn’t register their presence until they’re upon him. Messieurs, he all but yelps, clutching his hat full of coins. Nothing but a show for a bit of food, no one seemed to have any trouble with it.

And a fine show it was, says the guard with a bristling red mustache. He smiles, but the action is not comforting. I think that’s not enough coin for a young boy on the street. Not much more than a meal’s worth, wouldn’t you say, Michel?

A pittance, Claude, if anything, drawls the guard with the black beard and mustachios.

The boy looks between them then down at the hat, which has been crushed in his hold. The jingle of coin is not pronounced, and the weight is insubstantial. It is enough to get him food for the night if he eats well, enough for tomorrow if he portions carefully. But it is not all he’s able to take this night. He takes a moment to steel himself, then looks up at the two guards through his dark lashes, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. Messieurs, would you care to donate to my poor, lonely cause?

Claude smiles, pleased with his willingness. "But of course, mon poussin. As the boy holds out his hat, Claude drops two small coins into the little pile. But, bien sûr, if you wish for more, then you may try for another performance."

The boy meets their leering with a confident, knowing grin. Messieurs, do you deign to pay me more for a more private show?

The men look at one another and Michel gives a small bow with a hand on his chest. "But, mon poussin, we would only be too pleased."

The pleasure, messieurs, is mine, he replies demurely before stepping lightly away and slipping down a dark and lonely alley.

The two musicians shake their heads as the guards follow the boy. He is worth more than this, Remy, says the younger of the two around his pipe.

"Mais oui, Pip, I know, I know, the older sighs. He tightens the string on the pouch that contains their earnings, looking upon it sadly. Perhaps we should have let Dani keep it."

"Non, mon ami, he would have run after them regardless, Pip says with a shake of his head. If they gave him no money or gifts, he would do this. They are stronger than him, it is the way of nature. He is lucky that he is compensated at all."

I wish he would not appear so greedy, then, Remy huffs. His act makes them more eager.

"And then they pay more, Remy—merde, don’t you pay any attention?"

Of course I do! I cannot help but pay attention! He shakes his head. Let us retire. I don’t want to hear this again.

"Oui, Pip sighs. No sense in suffering with the boy."

The two pack away their instruments and head off, taking the long way to their homes so that they might avoid passing the alley.

This is no longer new, and with the loss of newness comes a desensitization. Dani is not the only one to have ever fallen victim to this sort of routine, there is nothing that puts his situation above any other’s. For a young boy in the heart of Paris, with no home or family to speak of, money is a fluid uncertainty that can come from a variety of places without much reliability. If reliability can be found, it will be taken, even if that reliability comes in the form of two leering guards, and even if that reliability has its knees upon the cobblestones of a narrow alley.

Good boy, Michel says softly, ruffling his hair once all is said and done. Hold out your hand.

Dani obeys, lowering his gaze humbly. A stack of coins and a necklace are placed in his palm, a pleasant weight.

Wear this, Michel says, so that I know you haven’t sold it.

"Oui, monsieur. Thank you for your generosity."

You’re a good boy, he says with a smile. You keep being good, you stay in business. Remember that.

Then they leave the alley. Dani remains kneeling, allowing himself to shake until he shakes no more. First, once he can move again, he puts his earnings into his hat with the rest. Then he pulls himself back to his feet. One scarf is used to wipe his face, and then he is presentable and can face the streets again with a little less shame.

It’s easier now than it used to be. It has become a routine, like a show in which he’s memorized the lines, and all that’s left is to perform when he is asked. He’s gotten better at it, they’ve molded him to their liking, and as long as he keeps them pleased, he keeps himself alive and fed. For a boy on the street, these are the only things that matter.

He is surrounded by the heavy cloud of his thoughts as he leaves the alley and trusts his feet to carry him to the local public house so he can find a meal. In ignoring the sounds of passersby heading home for the night, he did not realize some were passing right by his alley, and remains oblivious until he walks straight into a solid body and finds himself sprawled on the ground. The hat, held tightly in his hand, does not lose a single coin.

Street rat, spits one of the men in fine coats, and two others pause at his sides to look at the boy.

"Pardon moi, messieurs," Dani says, flashing a bright smile for them.

They only scoff and move along. All but one who stood behind the proud three tarries, looking curiously at Dani. You have a familiar look about you, he says, reaching down to help the boy up.

The other men bristle. "Sacre bleu, my lord, do not touch him!"

He’s just a boy, says the man, his nonchalance a direct contrast to their fright.

Dani accepts the help, standing, and he finds his weary heart suddenly softened by the look of this man. He is tall, unusually so, and dressed in a coat of the finest make. His shoes shine as though hardly ever subjected to the filth of the streets, and the feather of his hat looks to be new and crisp. But despite the finery, his eyes are brown and kind, crinkling pleasantly at the corners when he smiles, seemingly oblivious to the dirt and rags on the boy before him. His hands are soft, unsuited to hard labor, but the grip is strong when he pulls Dani to his feet.

I think I know you, he says, not letting go of Dani’s hand as he thinks. Tell me your name, perhaps I’ll remember.

Dani recovers from his surprise then executes a sweeping bow, complete with wildly gestured silk scarf. Jardani Lismore, monsieur, performer of fine dances for the enjoyment of the public.

Street whore, mutters one of the men.

But the one looking at Dani laughs. "Ah! Non, I remember you, monsieur, I saw you at last year’s Les Pâques celebration. Your performance was so… colorful!"

Unsightly, mutters a man.

Provocative, snorts another.

Dani remains smiling. "Merci beaucoup. Might I ask the name of such a clearly distinguished fan?"

The three men to the side begin blustering in earnest, but their companion waves them off. My name is Jean, he says with his soft smile. It is a pleasure to meet you in person, Monsieur Lismore. Do you plan to perform again at this year’s celebration?

But of course, monsieur! I would not dare to disappoint, he replies, all flashing green eyes and glinting smiles. "I have been practicing for it the past fortnight. There is but a few days left, non? And I could not possibly dance on these darkest of holy days. Monsieur, it pains me to say that I shall be silent on Friday and Saturday, but come Sunday morning, I will surely rise and join the Lord of the Dance!"

Jean laughs loudly, as though Dani is the most entertaining thing he’s come across all night. I look forward to it, Monsieur Lismore, he says, and Dani knows that he’s sincere. Perhaps we will meet again at the celebration on Sunday.

Dani performs yet another sweeping bow. "And you shall be the most honored of guests, Monsieur Jean. But for now, I am weary and must return to my humble bed. Adieu, mon copain, adieu and bonsoir."

There is an utter outcry from Jean’s three friends at this, but Jean merely laughs again and waves a dismissive hand at them. "Adieu," he says brightly as Dani skips away.

Dani hears that word echo in his ears all the way to the pub, the laughter that isn’t at all tinged with jeering ringing in his mind long after it fades away.

Despite his previous lauding of the Lord’s holiest days, his interest in religion is really only about as involved as socially demanded. He has no deep love of the Lord, nor does he think the Lord has any special feelings toward him. If he were to ever see evidence of Heaven’s light, it would be coincidence and nothing more.

And, by coincidence, he feels he may have just seen it.

Stepping free from the dark, cold alley, Dani should have gone on his lonely trek to locate food and warmth, carrying the shame that always weighs heavier than any amount of gold. He should have barely tasted his meal and gone to bed wrapped tightly in his blankets praying not to dream about the guardsmen and their rough hands. He’s done it nearly a dozen times before. He knows what to expect when he sees them in a crowd.

And it had to be by some grace of God that this isn’t how he spends his night this time. He’s never seen a man with kinder eyes—not any stranger, and certainly no one dressed in fine clothes. It seems to Dani that this Jean, when he picked him up off the ground, somehow pulled him out of that alley more than just physically.

For a moment.

That was all. As long as Jean was smiling and looking at Dani like he wasn’t a pile of garbage in the street. But it was a moment that suddenly separated what happened in the alley from what happens here in this inn, a golden moment that drove the shadows away even in the night, so that now Dani can taste his food, and feel the warmth of the fire, and remember that there are people who exist in Paris who are not Michel or Claude or those of their ilk.

There is a man named Jean who genuinely looks forward to seeing Dani’s silly performance at the festival on Sunday. And because it’s new and beautiful, that is what Dani thinks about as he falls asleep.

CHAPITRE 2

NOBLE DEVOIR

Disgraceful.

A complete waste of time, my lord.

Playing in the gutter.

"Enough, Comte Bellegarde groans, putting a hand to his temple. If I wanted a gaggle of heckling fools, I’d have chosen my advisers from the theater."

The three men before him have the good sense to look utterly mollified. My lord, we beg your forgiveness—

Just— He holds up a hand, then turns to the young man who has been sitting silently in an ornate armchair, seemingly unbothered by the proceedings. Jean? he says, an edge to his voice. Care to contribute?

Jean looks up as though surprised to be included. He glances at the three advisers, waiting for them to speak up, then brushes off the front of his jacket. I accidentally knocked a boy over in the street, I helped him up, and I complimented him on his craft.

The comte turns a dry eye to the advisers. Now, your embellishments.

The embellishments come bursting out like cats released from a sack.

"A bohemian boy!"

A common street rat, filthy little mutt—

He was stained and dirty and diseased!

"He’s a whore, a whore like all the rest, and he touched—"

He touched your son!

No, even better! Jean interjects. "I touched him."

My lord, we urged him to wash before seeing you—

I should say not! Jean proclaims, shooting to his feet. The comte rolls his eyes and braces himself. Scrub away the only evidence of meeting the very love of my life? You wound me!

One of the advisers is absolutely stricken at this pronouncement. The two others fumble madly.

In fact, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, Jean continues. "That boy you call street rat will soon be your superior, for we shall wed with immediacy, and together we shall provide the next heir to the Bellegarde house."

"Jean-Charles," one adviser gasps.

The comte finally manages to look at his son, keeping one hand on his temple. Are you finished?

Jean cocks an eyebrow. Am I?

With a wholly unbecoming roll of his eyes, the comte waves at the advisers. Out. Your duties for the day are done. I’ll speak with him.

They can’t leave fast enough, and with a series of hasty bows, they make their escape from the study.

The room feels larger and emptier with them gone. Jean loses much of his bravado, and sinks back down into his chair, eyes distant while he stares at nothing in particular. The comte lets him settle for a moment before speaking again. Shall I alert the archdeacon?

A poorly restrained smile comes to Jean’s lips. Can you imagine their faces if you did?

The comte is not known for smiling, but the idea does strike him as amusing. This isn’t the time for gentle jokes, however. "You caused quite a stir today, mon trésor," he says, getting to his feet so he can walk around the desk.

Jean rouses a bit at the nickname but doesn’t meet his father’s eyes. It hasn’t meant what it did when he was small for some time. I can get them stirred up over anything, he says quietly.

"Oui, but you do this on purpose. The comte leans back on the mahogany desk, looking at his son, though Jean will not return the gaze. I’m not worried about fleas or diseases or street dirt sullying your precious porcelain skin, Jean."

No, you’re worried about my solid-gold reputation, Jean says, and now all levity is gone from his voice.

The comte quirks a small smile. Solid gold isn’t so easily tarnished. It isn’t a simple matter to ruin a reputation like yours, I only ask that you stop trying so hard.

Jean looks at him incredulously. I knocked a boy over in the street. The polite thing was to help him up.

The comte holds his gaze. Rouzet, Baume, and Rousseau. Distinguished scholars, esteemed individuals, if ranking a bit low in nobility. They are where they are now because they know how to play the game and survey the field. They are assigned to you because I want them to teach you that.

Yes, but so far I’ve outdone all of them in the scores I’ve received on every exam, Jean says with a sweeping hand gesture, as though to display all marks inferior to his own.

You could have higher academic prowess than the king, but that wouldn’t make you better than him, nor would it make you any richer. He folds his arms, looking sternly upon the boy. "Your reputation is golden. Your political savvy is mud. Understand that what you do in your schooling is marvelous, and the court recognizes it as such. But all of that extensive knowledge, whatever it may be, is just one tool. You have to use it. Prove that you are better than others. Prove that you are useful and fit to be closer to the king. Prove that you will not waste your mind pretending that being contrary makes you the smarter man."

I’m contrary where it suits me to be contrary, Jean says shortly. Where the rules of social engagement fail, I choose betterment. If that means literally pulling someone out of the gutter, I’ll— He pauses, then looks up at the comte. This can’t be about lending a helping hand in the dark out of the public eye.

The comte steps forward then gently lifts Jean’s left hand from the chair and holds it so that his signet ring glints in the light. He holds his own left hand beside it with the matching ring. "You are not a single entity, mon trésor. Your intelligence is a gift. Your duty is not. Though peasants moan about how we nobles lay about all day eating cakes, there is true work to be done, and you are responsible for it. No, the things you do are not inherently wrong. But your outlook that draws you away from court is what worries me. It could be the undoing of this family, and I do not wish that disgrace upon us, you, or your children."

Jean’s gaze lingers upon the rings for a long moment before he pulls his hand away and stands. This is less of a family and more of a business, Papa. One I’m deciding whether or not I wish to inherit.

The comte says nothing more as Jean leaves the study, but he does linger for a while before returning to his work. With each successive argument, it becomes more and more difficult to assure himself that Jean does not mean what he says. He’s young, and he’s burdened with much more introspection than the majority of those at court. It is what sets him apart. Comte Bellegarde knows this and sees it as a source of both pride and concern. Not only could Jean-Charles Bellegarde III make something more of the family name—a feat, considering this one is already steeped in extensive lineage—but if he can step high enough, he could do great things for Paris, perhaps all of France.

But a taste for politics is not necessarily learned. One can lead a horse to water, but if the horse decides to bolt and study philosophy at a faraway university rather than face the competition, there’s little one can do to stop him.

CHAPITRE 3

PRIÈRES À L’ABBAYE

In retrospect, it was wise to run the usual routine with the guards yesterday.

Today is Good Friday, the day of the Lord’s death. If Dani were to go out into the street in his usual fashion, he’d be drawn and quartered within a minute. It doesn’t matter how starved he is, he cannot do any form of street performance when all followers of the Church are in mourning. Besides, all the rich and righteous people fast on this day, so few would think a meal something worthy to spend coin on.

As it is, however, Michel had given him enough money to last a few days, and more if Dani is supremely careful. Though, that does mean only one night of comfort in a room. As he has no work today, however, he can spend his time finding other, cheaper lodgings.

He purchases another meal from the public house shortly before noon and saves half of it in a few napkins before leaving.

The streets are quiet. The bells do not toll for the beginning of Mass, for just as Dani cannot ply his trade, neither can the priests and deacons of the city. Funnily enough, Mass is still considered a celebration. There’s also the fact that, in the sense of the Glorious Timeline, it would be too strange to eat of the Lord’s body at the same time he’s meant to still be in