“I hope you have decided on a future by now,” said my father to me while he took his wine at the table. Of course I had not. I have no talents, no skills, or ambitions for anything. I was a young man who wished to see nothing beyond the limits of my vision. I am not intelligent enough for anything in government, not clever enough for court life, nor brave enough for the military.

“No Monseigneur I have not.”

“My kindness ends in a year,” he said, “then you are on your own.”

I could have called his bluff. I knew that if he didn’t care about me he at least cared about the opinions of Society. He couldn’t cast out a son who did nothing wrong to fend for himself like a pauper. He likely would have forced me into the army or the first position he could find for me.On the other hand, I know how easy lies are to fabricate and even then I knew what happened to disappointing spares.

“I have secured a place for Xavier to serve under the Duc de Duras after his tour,” he said, “a Gentleman of the Bedchamber.”

My older brother, Louis Antoine Xavier d’Artois (4), the proud heir, shares the same dark hair and thick brows of our father and even his stoic and proud stance. A man made in his own image. The son who would succeed him - God willing. While I have the same nose and angles of the face as both of them I’ve always been more my mother’s miniature.

“That is wonderful,” said my mother. Her face veiled with her calm and pleasing gaze, puffed and powdered in her evening finery.

“You do not seem pleased,” said my father.

“I am,” I said quick and looked to my brother, who showed no reaction to the news, “I am happy for you.”

“Yes it will be an excellent start for him.”

“I believe that could be a good start for me as well.”

“Shouldn’t bother,” he said and laughed into his glass, “they don’t need fools.”

************************

My brother and I were obliged to follow my father on his hunting trips. We trudged through the cold and wet underbrush in our greatcoats while I lagged behind.The dew in the air, the chill, and my rain soaked clothes made me nauseous.

My father smiled to himself while carrying the gun. Hunting, traveling, riding - it all pleased him. I believe those were the only times I saw him happy. If it pleased him then it must also please his children. He needed his audience and my brother and I were forced to listen to his endless speeches on good hunting over and over again.

My father stopped in front of us. A stag hid behind a few trunks. The only one of the day. I stared ahead at the stag and waited for my father to shoot. My father turned and shoved the rifle into my hands with an odd half-smile on his face. I waited for him to laugh - he didn’t.

“Now,” he said.

I didn’t hate hunting. I didn’t care enough about it to practice shooting alone. I couldn’t keep him waiting. While I shook from the cold and my father’s stare I couldn’t focus or keep steady. I shot without thinking and the air was filled with a piercing cry. My face met my father’s backhand.

“What is wrong with you,” he gritted as we all stood by the stag’s side. The side of my face stung and dark blood oozed out of the hole in the stag’s throat as it grated for air. His chest heaved and deflated to show the sharp outlines of his bones.

“It was a clear shot,” he said, “it should have been quick. Now this poor animal has to suffer because of you. Shoot it again.”

I stood pale and silent as I stared into the stag’s frantic eyes that said what is happening to me? My father ripped the gun out of hands and after the shot his eyes said nothing else.

“It’s diseased,” said my brother who stood behind my father.

“Seems it,” said my father before he pulled out his golden watch from his coat and walked back towards home.

*********************

My father wasn’t a foolish drunk who found cruelty at the bottom of his glass. He was rational even when drunk and, sober or not, he hurt you all the same. He never repented. What did he need to be sorry for? He was in his rights and he exacted equal and firm judgment.

Though I can’t say my father was always cruel. Sometimes there were good days and in those days all the bad lighted. Everything as cast in a brilliant light and the pain slipped from my mind. Past tense. My life wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be. I exaggerate. I’m emotional. Though eventually the tides changed and every good moment of my life fled my memory when I was left broken and bleeding on the floor. My mind sucked straight into a foreign void. I couldn’t find the energy to move in its thick hot ink and my memories became tainted in it’s filth.

I considered running away. Every day I went riding I thought what it would be like to ride out into the horizon. If I went into the city, I could’ve boarded a ship to England. I didn’t know what I would’ve done after the face. I only had a small allowance, for small necessities, to teach me to manage my expenses. After I bought my ink, pomade, powder, paper, and gun there wasn’t much else. After three years of saving I had only two hundred livres (5). Enough to buy me some time but nothing else.

In truth, the more I thought about it the more daunting it seemed. The distances I would have to go, the risks involved, and the money I would need stacked up infinitely in my mind. I had a home, clothing, food, and company. If I left I would have given all that up for the small chance I would survive on my own. I thought what I faced at home was a better fate - being a man lone in the world is a terrible thing.

So, naturally, I decided to get a gun. My father collected so many that I thought I could steal one and he wouldn’t notice. I stood in the center of my room and listened up to the ceiling. When I heard his steps leave his study I went upstairs. I only had to be quiet in searching as I didn’t know exactly he kept the pistols.

My father spent a great deal of time in his study. In my room I could hear him pace in the early hours and I imagined that he scrutinized his accounts so he knew where every sous went. Tall shelves of old books bound in Moroccan leather filled all sides of the room. I avoided the room when I could. It was too austere for my taste. I felt that one misstep would cause all the shelves to collapse and suffocate me in their dust.

I didn’t get even a few steps in side.

“What do you want?”

I turned and saw my father in his red damask dressing gown in the doorway.

“I cam to see you, Monseigneur,” I said as he moved to his desk without looking at me, “I have a question.”

He sat down and looked up at me with his bored countenance, “what is it?”

I searched my mind for a solid minute.

“What is-”

“Can I have a gun?”

He squinted and I gave a disarming smile but my hands shook in the pockets of my coat. I stood still and tried to regulate my breathing.

“A pistol.”

“Why?”

“I…need to practice shooting,” I said, “after what happened last time.”

I wasn’t a good liar then so I was certain he could look right through. He was an omniscient god who could surely right my very thought. But how could he? How could he even guess what my true intentions were? He couldn’t. I was lucky he didn’t walk in on my riffling through his drawers - he would have killed me.

Though, I suppose I wasn’t truly lying. I did need a gun and I, in a sense, would practice shooting.

“Why do you need a pistol for hunting?”

He got me there.

“I thought I should start small,” I said, “then I could practice with a rifle.”

What was the worst he could say? No? Or he could have forced me out and tell me not to bother him while he was trying to work. He hummed and walked past me to a dresser. He pulled out a wooden box from the top drawer which he handed to me. A carved ivory and steel flintlock sat on top of a red velvet lining. My father rambled on about the mechanism, the craftsmanship, and how it was given to him by my grandfather, the Comte Antoine Xavier d’Artois. His voice sounded distant in my ears and I could feel my heartbeat in my throat while I could scarcely breathe. I could have passed out.

“You should ask your brother to go with you,” he said finally after a good ten minutes, “he’s a good shot.”

“Yes, I will Monseigneur, thank you,” I mumbled and left. The box weighed twice its weight in my hands as I rushed back down to my room. I shoved the box under my shirts in a chest by my bed.

How easy that was.

*******************

I laid on my bed in my clothes until the night grew darker. I had some light from the low fire and a candle. I got up when I was certain the household was asleep. The more I think about my past plan, the more I think of what would have happened if I was able to go through with it. My mother would have found me first. Then I suppose her cries would have alerted the rest of the household. That would have been a terrible thing - I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Though at the time I didn’t consider the after. The after did not exist to me. The end was the only thing I sought. I was so very stupid then.

I prepared the pistol. I spent the time I spent in bed wondering if I should’ve left a note or not. I considered it but I didn’t think of what to say. I didn’t even know my own reasoning. I could have said it was because of sorrow or a call to the void. I could have said that my isolated existence created such a degree of ennui in me that I couldn’t bear it. That would have been somewhat true. Though that would make it seem more sudden than reality. In truth I thought about for a number of years. A sudden impulse that grew until it could no longer be ignored. I could’ve added some flourish and say that I was in too much pain and despair. Though I wasn’t in much despair day to day. No, the only thing I can really say to explain myself is that’s just who I was - who I am.

I hesitated. In my hesitation I told myself that it would be quick. I had to stop being such a coward. I still shook and cried. I walked towards a cliff with one part of me wanting to go back home and another wanting to walk off the edge. I paced up and down my room for an hour or so. I looked over the edge and saw a reflection of my future. I convinced myself that it was the time - if not then than never. As I paced I felt my head grow hot and I couldn’t get enough air. My room shrunk around me as I paced faster. I just needed to make a decision - and I did decide. I decided that death was nothing. I would have pulled the trigger. I would have - if the door didn’t open.

I must have been a frightful sight to see - crying with a gun to my head. I must have because before I knew what was happening I was on the ground. I struggle against the force. My brother pinned my arms down as I tried to kick him off me.

“What the hell - what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He looked up at him as he stood above me with the gun he ripped out of my hand. I tried to find my bearing and stand up.

“I can-” I said but I had to stop to catch my breath. I didn’t know exactly what to say. Explain? Explain what? It was clear what I was going. I didn’t have to explain anything.

I stared at my brother’s face. His jaw clenched and a look in his eye I couldn’t describe other than disgust. I don’t think I ever saw my brother so angry before. I thought he would hit me. I swallowed and glanced around the room as if something would come save me. He was silent until he turned his back towards me.

“Please please,” I said in the same tone as I did with my father. My voice quavering, “please-”

“What?” He said turning around.

“- don’t say anything.”

“Why not?!” I mouthed the word please again. He looked in my eyes before coming back close to me.

“Never do this again,” he said to be close my face, “do you understand me?”

I made some semblance of a nod while I tried to breathe.

“I said-”

“Yes!” I said loud,“I promise.”

He pressed his lips together as he looked around my room.

“Just go to bed,” he sighed.

He left and closed the door behind him. So there I was - on the floor, my face tear stained, unable to breathe and a knot tightening ever tighter in the pit of my stomach. I stayed in that position until reality hit me with full force. I couldn’t sleep. I spent the rest of the night sick in my bed until I saw the sunlight come through the middle of my curtains and onto the floor. I stayed in bed in a cold sweat as the walls closed in and the heat intensified.

I had to leave. Afraid that I would run into my brother I walked carefully until I made it to the stables. I needed fresh air and solitude so I rode out into a clearing in the forest. I had a tantrum that even surprised myself. I cried, hit myself, and laughed until I was again was a shivering mess who could scarcely breathe. It was the most mortifying thing I had ever live through. I had to check my surrounding to make sure I was not in a vivid nightmare or being punished in Hell but to my misfortune, no, it was all real. In that moment I truly wanted to die from the dishonor and shame. I believed there was no way I could go on with such utter embarrassment.

I didn’t know what would happen to me. I was sure that my brother would tell my father - how could he react? He wanted to rid himself of me. My mother? I didn’t know how she would react. I imagined a small room infested with rats and bugs that would crawl all over me - maybe that’s what I deserved (1).

I calmed enough eventually. I still had my lessons. I went through them in a listless fog. My stomach rose and dropped. Nothing around me felt real or lasting. Every minute felt like I was one step closer to the gallows.

At dinner I couldn’t look at my brother at all or either of my parents. I sat downcast and afraid to use the silverware in case it made my shaking obvious. I had not seen my brother to rest of the day.

“Are you alright? You look sickly,” said my mother as she put her hand to my head.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled.

“Did you go shooting?”

“What?”

I forgot about that.

“I said did you go shooting? I saw you go to the stables this morning.”

“That made you ill,” said my mother, “it is too cold to go out.”

“That is stupid,” said my father, “the cold hardens a man up. It tightens the nerves.”

I looked at my brother who focused on eating. He didn’t look at me back.

“Yes,” I muttered and returned to my dinner, “I went shooting.”

Chapter II: The Fool

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