Chapter XI: Part 11

Indisputably the most celebrated of the French fools by right of patent, was Brusquet, whose whole career is tolerably well known, and who was in every respect one of the most singular characters of his time. He was a native of Provence; of his childhood little is known, save that he spent it in his native province; and there is some little uncertainty as to the profession with which he first started on his more public career. According to some authors, he appeared at Paris as a pettifogging lawyer, and was in danger of starving for want of clients. But Brusquet was an original fellow, and the nearer he was in danger of being famished, the more merrily he met what fate was preparing for him. Indeed, his mirth, wit, and light-heartedness procured for him a prosperity unattainable by the practice of the law, by introducing him to the tables of great men, as a professional jester.

There is another and a still more amusing version of the early professional life of Brusquet. According to this, he commenced as a quack doctor; perhaps he took up physic when he laid down law. However this may be, it is pretty certain that he was a medical hanger-on to the camp at Avignon, in 1536. He had of course little or no knowledge of his profession; but his patients died in greater ignorance than he. His _impudence and boldness_ were about equal; and he so dosed the Lanzknechts and Switzers, that he at last became as terrible to them as the enemy. They perished by scores under his vigorous practice, of which the modest practitioner seemed to think lightly; for after all, said he, “What are they? Only Swiss robbers and plundering riders.” But these robbers and riders were first-rate troops, and their commanders could not afford to lose them at the rate by which they were despatched by the gay yet terrific Brusquet. And the quack began to be looked upon, in some sort, as an assassin. Indeed, the great constable de Montmorency, exasperated by the results of his peculiar medical skill, resolved to confer on him an assassin’s reward, and, accordingly, ordered him to be summarily executed. Brusquet was warned in time, by friends who could better spare a legion of Lanzknechts than they could the brilliant-witted quack; and he at once betook himself to the quarters of the commander-in-chief, the Dauphin, afterwards Henry II. This prince knew of Brusquet’s better qualities, by report, and he was so charmed by the fellow’s manner and matter, his quaint address, his witty illustrations, and his method of making his offences assume the guise of merits, that he at once took him under his protection, exempted him from arrest by the camp provost, and appointed him to a subordinate place in the Dauphin’s household.

If Brusquet really became fool by right of office, which seems to have been the case, it is certain that he was the object also of much favour, enjoying privileges seldom if ever granted to the court buffoon. I have said, in a previous page, that the _plaisant_ could never lay aside his official costume, nor sleep out of the royal mansion, nor clap sword on his thigh, except by permission (and that was rarely given) of his master. With Brusquet the reverse seems to have been the rule. He did not reside in the palace, although he held the office of jester to three kings, Henry II., Francis II., and Charles IX. He was, moreover, a married man, and he filled other posts besides that of mirth-maker to their Majesties. After being a sort of gentleman valet to Henry, he was elevated to the responsible and lucrative situation of “Maître des Postes,” or Posting-master General of Paris. In this capacity he laid travellers under contribution without mercy. Very few could undertake a journey without having recourse to his office, and his fees being fixed by himself, journeying was found to be a very costly thing, without being in any sense of the word a luxury. He never had less than a hundred nags in his stables, ready for hirers, and he used to designate himself, with comic pomposity, “Brusquet, captain of the hundred light horse.”

As with other jesters, the wit of Brusquet is oftener praised than cited. Some illustrations of it I will not venture to place before my readers. They may have excited laughter and applause from princes, courtiers, and ladies, three centuries ago, but the narration would be as intolerable now, as if a clergyman were to read to his congregation one of Mrs. Aphra Behn’s comedies instead of the Gospel. And yet this buffoon was the especial friend and favourite of the Cardinal of Lorraine. That princely prelate of the house of Guise, kept a most brilliant and rather riotous court of his own at his “Hôtel de Cluny.” It was a locality where the Cardinal loved to assemble round him philosophers, poets, historians, minstrels, wits, and abundance of pretty women, with wit or without it. The grossness of Brusquet’s jokes gave no shadow of offence here. It was a time when not only the “_gros mots_,” but grossest practical jokes were highly relished; even when the Cardinal himself was made the object of them. As an instance, I will only allude to the story told in the Marquis de Bouillé’s great work, ‘Les Ducs de Guise,’ how the Cardinal’s intention to preach in the royal chapel, on one particular occasion, was completely frustrated by some court fools, official or otherwise. The Cardinal had even reached the pulpit; but on opening the door, he rushed from it in disgust. The reason for his so doing was long a matter of laughter in court and city.

Coarse as Brusquet was, he was not an ill-educated man, being well acquainted with the Spanish and Italian languages as well as his own; and this accomplishment may have rendered him useful as well as otherwise agreeable to the Cardinal. It is certain that the jester accompanied the Cardinal into foreign countries on more than one affair of State. The two respectively illustrious personages, with other individuals, more or less noble, were together at Brussels, in April 1559, when the Cardinal negotiated the peace of Cateau-Cambresis, with Philip II. of Spain. At a banquet in the house of the Duke of Alva, Brusquet exhibited to the royal and noble guests present a questionable trick of his calling. At the close of the dessert, he leaped on the table, laid himself flat, rolled himself up, with plates, spoons, fruit, etc., in the cloth, and fell off at the other end of the table. He could scarcely stand for the weight of silver and other table furniture which he had about him; but, says Brantôme, who tells the story, “the King, Philip II., ordered that he should be allowed to leave the room with what he had carried off under the cloth. Philip laughed so immoderately, and found the joke so exquisite, so humorous, and so clever, that he wished Brusquet to keep all for himself. It was a matter of astonishment that the latter did not wound himself with the knives which were in the cloth with the other articles; but it is thus that God protects fools and infants.”

It was on the occasion of this political visit to Flanders that Brusquet met with the Emperor, or ex-Emperor, Charles V., face to face. The old Emperor was still at the side of the King, his son, to counsel and guide him. At one of the solemn interviews at court, Charles recognized the well-known face of the fool among the French nobles composing the delegation. Charles did not dislike to exchange smart sayings with any one quick of wit; and after courteous inquiries touching the health of the fool, the ex-monarch said to him, “Brusquet, do you remember the day when the constable de Montmorency wanted to have you hanged?” “Do I remember it?” he replied to the question of Charles. “Right well do I remember it. It was the day on which your Majesty purchased those splendid rubies and carbuncles which now adorn your imperial hand.” He said this in allusion to the inflamed gouty swellings which paralyzed the Emperor’s fingers.

“Many thanks for your lesson, Brusquet,” rejoined Charles, laughing good-humouredly. “I will take care to fence no more with a clever fellow who knows so well how to parry every thrust made at him.” And the two, fool and monarch, fell to recounting to each other many a good story, in the art of doing which the sovereign was quite a match for the jester.

Philip was even more delighted with the _plaisant_ than Charles; and, perhaps remembering the old adage, “Asinus asinum fricat,” he despatched his own fool to France, to learn to be more witty than he was, by association with Brusquet; and to entertain King Henry, if he could, half as well as Brusquet had entertained Philip. Henry constituted the Spanish fool the guest of the Paris posting-master, and the latter contrived to draw profit from the charge, for the Spaniard had four horses of his own, and these Brusquet let out every night, for posting purposes, and for his peculiar profit. The owner of the steeds became singularly puzzled by the worn and wretched condition into which his stud gradually fell; and for which Brusquet accounted by laying it to the water of the Seine, as deleterious to foreign horses. The Spaniard seems to have been an imbecile; but Brusquet was a felonious rogue. On the return of the former to Philip, the French King presented him with a gold chain, as a parting gift. Brusquet exchanged this, almost under the very nose of the fool, for a similar chain of brass; and then addressed a letter to Philip, informing him of the fact, and assuring him that his jester deserved to be flogged by the kitchen scullions, for being such a wretched dullard as to be deceived by a trick so common. Common as it was, however, Henry compelled his buffoon to restore the stolen chain, but gave him its value in money, as a compensation “for his sacrifice to honesty.”

It is the assertion of Brantôme, that if all the witty sayings, tricks, and traits had been collected, of which Brusquet was the author, they would have filled a bulky volume. “There was never his like,” adds the enthusiastic sketcher of characters. “Never had he his equal among ‘plaisants compagnons,’ since these latter ever existed.... He was the first man for buffoonery that ever lived or ever will live, whether for speech, gesture, fun, or originality, in short, for everything; and all without giving offence or exciting displeasure.” This is a fine eulogium but what Du Tillot said a hundred years ago, with relation to France, may be still more correctly stated in our own days, with relation to England, namely, that “our manners (morals) would not accommodate themselves with the actions of Brusquet, who enchanted every court and potentate of his time.” Setting aside the incidents that ought not, and the turns and plays on words that cannot, be translated, and which hardly raise a smile even in their original language, I will add a few illustrations of the humour of a jester who was said to be the delight of every court and prince of his time.

Brusquet had great dread of the water, and one day, his friend the Cardinal invited him on a boating expedition. The jester promptly declined, alleging his cowardice by way of excuse. “You need not be afraid of any danger,” said his Eminence, “for you will be in the protecting companionship of the Pope’s best friend.” “Ay, truly,” replied Brusquet, “I have often heard that his Holiness has unlimited power in earth, heaven, and purgatory; but I never heard that he had much influence over the water.” This is certainly wit of the very mildest sort, and we are little more edified by the trait which tells of his coveting a gold cup with a lid in precious stones, which he saw on the table of the Count of Benevento. That good-natured nobleman let him have what he coveted; but retained the movable lid which, with its sparkling gems, was exceedingly more valuable than the cup itself. “Count,” said Brusquet, “we are in a cold country here in France, and it is hardly wise to let me carry my golden friend here home without his cap.” The Count was liberal; he either esteemed the lid so little or the wit so much, that he bade the _plaisant_ do as he would; and Brusquet triumphantly carried off both the cup and the cover.

He could, however, very tartly satirize men as greedy as himself. When Frenchmen were discussing as to the General most likely to be able to take Calais, Brusquet named a judge famous for taking bribes, and he added, “Why don’t you send him to take Calais? he takes everything before him.”

We get at something of the real life of Brusquet when we view him in connection with his great enemy, Strozzi, the son of a Princess de Medicis. The two were in continual antagonism. On one occasion, the Marshal appeared at court, on a gala day, in a splendid velvet mantle, magnificently embroidered. Brusquet had long coveted this article of dress; but being unable to obtain it, he resolved, if possible, to succeed by spoiling it for the owner’s wear. Accordingly, on the occasion in question, he stood behind the unconscious Marshal, and with some pieces of fat and a larding-needle, he larded the mantle all over the back, in serried and regular rows. The mischievous joker must have had confederates in most of the spectators; however this may have been, when he had completed his task, he suddenly turned Strozzi with his back towards the King, and asked the latter if he had ever seen a more tastefully embroidered mantle in his life. The owner, seeing the greasy trick of which he had been made the victim, proudly slipped the mantle from his neck, flung it to the “fou,” but told him that he should pay dearly for his bargain.

The Marshal kept his word, but not till a sufficiently long period had elapsed for Brusquet to forget that it had ever been pledged. It was therefore not without satisfaction that the jester saw himself visited by the Marshal in company with an individual whom the Marshal introduced as a foreign prince. His highness, however, was nothing more than a locksmith, engaged by Strozzi to plunder Brusquet of his plate, of which he was known to possess a rather rich collection. The pseudo-prince was armed with a pick-lock, and when Strozzi had indicated to him the chest in which the treasure lay, the Marshal proposed a visit to the stables, while his highness, who was fatigued, rested awhile in Brusquet’s chamber. This arrangement was immediately effected; and while the Marshal and the _plaisant_ were discussing the points of horses, the illustrious stranger quickly operated on the plate, a valuable portion of which he contrived to conceal about his person. Shortly after, the three again met, and, after a pleasant gossip, they separated on the best of terms with one another. A considerable time elapsed before Brusquet discovered his loss, and even then he had no suspicion as to the plunderer. He proceeded to court, however, made such a piteous statement of his loss to the King, that all who heard him felt compassion for him. Among the audience was Strozzi, who expressed a conviction that the whole, or best part of the plate might be recovered under promise of reward. Brusquet hurriedly declared that he could be content to give up one half for the recovery of the other. Thereupon Strozzi acknowledged the robbery, adding, “I will only retain a quarter of the whole, namely five hundred golden crowns’ worth, and that not for myself, but as a recompense for the handiwork of my princely friend the locksmith.”

The whole story forms a singular social trait of the times. With the arrangement made by the Marshal, Brusquet was compelled to be satisfied, and he received with sour gratification the three quarters of that of which he had been robbed. But he was resolved upon being revenged, and he found an early opportunity to realize his resolution. He one day saw Strozzi dismount from a magnificent horse, superbly caparisoned, in the court-yard of the Louvre. The steed was left in charge of a groom who walked it about, bridle in hand. To this man Brusquet went with a feigned message from his master, to obey which he was obliged to leave the horse in Brusquet’s charge. When the groom had disappeared, the _fou_ leaped on to the steed’s back and galloped home. There, he cut off the whole mane and the half of one ear. He then changed the costly saddle and adornments of the charger, for a common saddle and beggarly adjuncts. This done, he clapped a heavy trunk on the crupper, put a still heavier postilion in the saddle, and set him off, on a flying gallop from Paris to Longjumeau and back. The horse was then sent to Strozzi, in a pitiable condition. It had been worth, that morning, more than five hundred golden crowns, and now Brusquet intimated that he would give fifty for him. The Marshal accepted the offer, returned the mutilated steed, and declared that he forgave the trick, though he only intended to take proper compensation for it.

Strozzi set his compensation at a high price, and compelled Brusquet to pay a whole stud for a single horse. The Marshal obtained possession of the horses, by ordering them for the King’s service. He took the whole of them to Compiègne, where, after riding them nearly to death, except eight which he kept for his own use, he distributed several among the troopers who wanted remounting, and he actually sold two to a miller, who employed them as beasts of burden. These last were identified by one of Brusquet’s postilions, and the enraged proprietor had recourse to the law. But the law was almost inoperative against a powerful man like Strozzi, and was altogether so in this case, since Brusquet found that it would cost him more to ride after justice, than it would to resign himself to the loss of his “light horse.”

He found, too, that the Marshal was too serious a joker for him to contend with, and accordingly, confessing himself defeated, he repaired to Strozzi’s house, where he proposed measures of reconciliation. By-gones, he said, should be by-gones; and in future, he suggested, that all costly and injurious jests should cease between them, and only harmless trickery be allowed. The Marshal not only accepted the terms, but congratulated Brusquet and himself on their reconciliation, to celebrate which, he consented to be the guest of the “fou,” and dine at the latter’s house. Brusquet promised to entertain him and a number of courtiers, altogether a dozen, in princely style. At the appointed time, the guests appeared, and the host ushered them to table with a world of ceremony. He did not himself presume to sit down with them, but he displayed unwearied zeal in seeing them gallantly entertained. As they took their places at table, thirty postilions in their best dresses, entered the room and blew a post-horn _galop_ as an invitation to begin. The dishes consisted entirely of pies, but the odour of these was so appetizing, that the courteous guests abstained from making any remarks on the singularity of this first course. Brusquet wished them good appetite and happy digestions, and then left the room, ostensibly to prepare the second course. But with his dagger in his girdle, and his cap saucily cocked on his head, he hurried to the palace, and entered the presence of the King, laughing immoderately. To the inquiries of his patron, the _plaisant_ replied that he had a dozen noble friends at dinner at his house, and that he had set them down to a first course of pies, under the pastry of which there was, in one dish, an assortment of rusty spurs; in another, a few brass-mounted bits; in a third, stewed stirrup-leathers; in a fourth, slices of old saddle, and so on. The relation amused the court much more than the fact itself did the invited courtiers. These, on discovery of the trick played them, were doubly enraged, for they were hungry as well as deluded; and they withdrew after overrunning Brusquet’s house, like hostile soldiers in search of plunder, and threatening vengeance for the trick put upon them. The vengeance is said to have been accomplished by the Marshal, not exactly according to agreement, by which the respective parties were bound to abstain from actual mutual injury. Strozzi stole one of Brusquet’s mules, which was converted into several venison pasties, and these, in a circuitous manner, were sent to the “plaisant,” as a present from a duly-named friend. The “fou” ate plentifully, and was not informed of the trick till he had nearly eaten all. _Then_ the Marshal showed him the head of the mule, informed him that he had devoured the hind quarters, and inquired how he liked his fare. Brusquet, who was more of an epicure than a glutton, was so disgusted as to remain ill and almost fasting for several days; but he did not remain without his _revanche_.

He happened to hear that the Marshal had ridden incognito into Paris, one Easter Sunday, being desirous of passing the festival quietly in his own house, and to avoid being summoned to court. A few minutes after Brusquet had learned the fact, he repaired to a neighbouring convent of Franciscans, where he required two of the holy brotherhood to follow him for a particular purpose.

“The fact is,” said the jester, “I come from the family of a nobleman in the Faubourg St. Germain. He is possessed by an evil spirit; will hear nothing of God; fears as little touching the devil; scorns to celebrate the religious festival of Easter, and holds the entire brotherhood of priestly men in utter detestation.”

Brusquet then crossed the palm of each brother with a crown-piece, which so inspired the two Franciscans, that they declared if the patient were possessed by a legion of devils, they would undertake to drive them all out of him. Therewith the three departed for Strozzi’s house, where their appearance excited some surprise in the Marshal’s personal attendant. The latter, however, gave way when Brusquet, after taking him aside, had informed him that his master had particularly important business to transact with the two spiritual gentlemen, and that they might enter the Marshal’s chamber without being announced. The servant bowed and withdrew; Brusquet showed the Franciscans into Strozzi’s bedroom, the door of which he immediately closed upon them, and remained standing on watch outside.

The monks found the Marshal lying on his bed reading. To his stare of surprise they meekly replied by inquiring how he found himself in soul and body. “So well, both in strength and spirit,” said Strozzi, “that if you do not immediately decamp, I will fling the couple of you out of window.” They concluded that he was very powerfully “possessed” indeed; and straightway with loud prayer, and some inharmonious singing, they proceeded to sprinkle him from head to foot with holy water. He really hissed with rage, as if he had been red-hot. Then, leaping from his bed, he grasped at his dagger, and flew at the monks. A fearful struggle ensued, and howling, and stamping, and showers of oaths on one side, and holy water on the other. When the uproar brought the servants of the Marshal to his assistance, they found him speechless with rage, and in the sudden temporary lull, Brusquet beckoned them from the room, and locked the door upon Strozzi and his attendants. He then paid and dismissed the Franciscans, and, fresh from this new exploit, he ran to the palace, and kept the whole royal and august personages there assembled, in a roar of laughter at the highly seasoned details which he exultingly recounted,--from the Marshal’s ride into Paris, to the final exorcism made to relieve him from Satanic possession.

The joke was so exceedingly to the taste of his Majesty, that he despatched messengers to Strozzi to inquire after his ghostly and bodily health, and especially if the Franciscans had succeeded or failed in making a true believer of the most unbelieving man in France.

Strozzi never forgave this trick, which had rendered him ridiculous in the eyes of his own servants. He exacted a double vengeance, which fell heavily on the fool. The Cardinal of Lorraine had established an inquisitorial tribunal in France, and before this body, Brusquet was charged with heresy, and with open mockery of the religion of the State. The tribunal found it an easy matter to fling the alleged offender into confinement, with menace of loss of life. He was a well-plumed pigeon, whom of course, they did not intend to kill, but only to greatly terrify and thoroughly pluck. Brusquet was a coward and avaricious, but he bled freely in pistoles in order to save his life and purchase freedom.--Strozzi having injured him in purse, proceeded to assail him in his honour.

The year was 1555. The Cardinal de Lorraine had gone on a mission to Rome, and in his suite was his favourite Brusquet, who had the royal sanction to follow his Eminence. The Legation had not been long within the walls of Rome, when intelligence of the death of the King’s “plaisant” reached Paris, by especial courier. The latter carried with him a duly attested document, the jester’s last will. It was the most singular of deeds, for therein the testator willed or prayed that the King should permit the wife of Brusquet to retain the office held previously by her husband,--that of Superintendent-General of Posting,--on one condition, namely, that she espoused his friend the courier, who was the bearer of the news and the testamentary paper. It was thought that nothing could possibly be more appropriate than this dying act of a court fool. The thing was resolved upon, and the wife of Brusquet, who had no children, except a married daughter, was forced, persuaded, or cajoled, till she consented to marry the courier,--in order that she might preserve a lucrative office.

The wedded pair had already kept house for a month when Brusquet (who was daily electrifying the Papal Court by his mirthfulness or impudence) suddenly learned the news of his death, and of the indecently hasty marriage of his not altogether disconsolate widow. He was in exceeding wrath, hurried back to Paris, turned the second husband into the street, chastised his wife, and then publicly remarried her! Court, camp, and city considered this last act as one more in the official character of the fool than any he had hitherto accomplished, and the hilarity was general and unbounded. Brusquet, however, only showed that his wit had departed, for he attempted to avenge himself by conveying false information to the Court of Rome as to alleged traitorous intentions of Strozzi against the states and property of the Church. He represented the Marshal as having fallen into disgrace, and, after flying from France, having joined an Algerine force destined to operate successively against Ostia, Civita Vecchia, and Ancona, and ultimately to plunder the wealthy shrine of Loretto. The Roman Government was only needlessly alarmed, and Brusquet only suffered for his accusation of another.

There can be little doubt that his old personal enemy brought down upon him the calamity by which he was visited in 1562. In the very midst of much worldly prosperity, he found himself accused of a very serious crime, that of being a Huguenot, and, still worse, that of suppressing or delaying despatches which contained news unfavourable to the Huguenot cause. The accusation would seem to have been better founded as regards Brusquet’s son-in-law. The storm, however, fell most heavily upon the former. He was obliged to fly, and the orthodox populace plundered the house which the heretical court fool had abandoned with so much precipitation.

The fugitive jester found a home, first at Nogent, with Madame de Bouillon, a great friend of the Huguenots, and, subsequently, with Madame de Valentinois. But to be a concealed, fugitive dependant was little to the humour of a man who had made three kings laugh, and whose jokes had for so long a period been accepted as apologies or excuses for much rascality. He stooped to beseech his adversary, Strozzi, in a letter shown by the latter to Brantôme, who describes it as very well expressed, to use his influence with the authorities, to enable him, an odd man, to end his days in Paris, in peace and quietness. The petition was unheeded; at all events, the petitioner drew no benefit from it. He lost all heart, patience, and health, sank into moody despair, and died at the château of Anet, the guest of Madame de Valentinois, in the year 1563.

If there be any of Brusquet’s descendants living, they belong to their illustrious ancestor through his daughter. It is popularly said, that when Thoni (one of the fools of Henry II.) died, the principal poets of the day applied for the vacant post. This shows, as I have before remarked, that the suggestion of Ménage, that the court poet and court fool often consisted of one and the same person, is not to be summarily rejected. The poets probably were not such fools as to neglect the present opportunity, which offered them the chance of a lucrative social appointment, with that of the less richly paid office of _plaisant_ to the King.

I have in a previous page noticed the sharp wit of some of the ladies at the court of Catherine de Medicis. I may here add, that such wit was sometimes very sharply reprehended. Mr. Bayle St. John, in his biography of Montaigne, affords me an illustration of this fact, by there recording the circumstance of one of the maids-of-honour, Mademoiselle de Limeuil, who wrote a laughable satire on the Queen Catherine; by whom it was accounted but a sorry court jest, and the sprightly young authoress was well whipped, like any coarse male fool, for her pains. Mr. St. John records also a fact which proves that the jest of the “fou” was not always the most acceptable sauce at a royal banquet. The fact alluded to refers to Duchatel, who was originally in a printer’s office, was ultimately Grand Almoner of France, and who, as Mr. St. John tells us, was paid by the King to talk to him during meals.

It is a singular fact, that while Francis I., who had a great affection for jesters, was mentioned in the funeral oration pronounced over his remains, as a grave, learned, and philosophic prince, Charles IX., who cared nothing for those old, joyous appendages to court, and whose name is associated with everything gloomy and terrible, was celebrated in the sermon preached at _his_ interment by Father Sorbin, as a prince at once tender-hearted and gracious, the bulwark of the faith, and the lover of men of wit: “piteux et débonnaire, propugnateur de la foy, et amateur des bons esprits.” Charles may be said to have been, in some measure, his own fool, for we hear of him figuring at a tournament, with a party of joyous followers, all of whom, King and courtiers, fought in the lists attired as women. Another of his court jests consisted in his hiring ten young thieves, whom he brought to the Louvre, where he set them to rob the guests of their swords, jewellery, and splendid cloaks, laughing heartily the while, as he witnessed their success, or saw the unconsciousness of the victims, or beheld their surprise and indignation, after they had been despoiled. These young thieves, who were amply rewarded for the exercise of their ability, rank among the most singular of hirelings paid to excite laughter in a gloomy king.

Henri III. was an especial patron of the “fou,” and some of the best specimens of the latter class figured at his court. The most renowned of these were Sibilot and John (or Sebastian) Chicot. The name of the former became, for a time, the generic name for a witty fool, and to be a “Sibilot” was to be a jester of the highest quality. It was even said of the aspiring and conspiring Duke de Mayenne, that he wanted only troops and a Sibilot to be as great a man as the King.

It was an act of this turbulent Duke of the house of Lorraine which first brought Chicot into notice. Cardinal Perron, in his ‘Perroniana,’ published at Cologne, 1694, speaks in high praise of this Gascon gentleman; for the latter was _De_ Chicot, and proud of the prefix, before he descended to plain Chicot, and became “fou du Roi.”

Like most Gascons, Chicot was poor; but he seems to have first repaired to court not so much with the intention of pushing his fortune as seeking protection against the manners and rough usages of the Duke de Mayenne, who looked with favour on a lady who was the object also of the homage of the tall and humorous Gascon. The mirth inspired by the sallies of Chicot soon attracted the notice of the King, and the quaint fellow speedily discovered that he might turn his wit to more profitable use at the Louvre and at Fontainebleau than he could his industry devoted to any professional pursuit in Paris. The last biographer of Chicot, in the ‘Nouvelle Dictionnaire Biographique,’ refers to the portrait of the celebrated buffoon drawn by Dumas, in his ‘Dame de Monsoreau,’ as preserving the traditionary features of Chicot’s manners, aspect, and character. In the work just named, the author adopts the tradition of the love-affair, in which the Lorrainer and the Gascon were rivals; and M. Dumas further intimates that when Chicot became official jester he found solace for his disappointment, in mimicking the manners of his master. To the buffoon who would stand with his cheeks puffed out, and his hand on his side, the nobles would pay court as to the true King, while Chicot feigned to treat the latter as his jester. If the nobles winced under the sarcastic speeches of the “fou,” and threatened vengeance, Henri would protect him, in his character alike of fool and gentleman; and in return, Chicot took an infinite delight in countermanding orders issued by Henri; and, standing at the King’s toilette, thought nothing of dipping his fingers into the monarch’s perfumed cream, and tearing the royal combs through his rough beard. It was only when Henri was religiously scourging himself, and when Chicot was consequently most inclined to jest, that the sovereign would tolerate no ribaldry. At those times, the buffoon might, if he liked, go and fight duels, whips being the weapons, with gentlemen who had too much leisure and too little pastime. Or he would resort to some tavern outside the barrier, swallow delicious teal with crab-sauce, address himself to joyous drinking, and return to court when it suited his caprice; for Chicot seems to have been exempt from the rule by which the French official fool was bound to remain within the precincts of the palace.

At times, the King would appeal to Chicot, not as his jester, but as a man of sense, and his friend. Chicot, on the other hand, would make suggestions worth adopting, and quote from books in support of his advice or opinions. The familiarity of the two was so great, that they often slept in the same room; and by day travelled in the same litter, drawn by half-a-dozen mules, or where the roads were difficult, by as many oxen. The state in which King and fool journeyed is thus admirably sketched by Dumas, in the work mentioned above. “The litter contained Henri, his physician, his chaplain, the jester, four of the King’s ‘minions,’ a couple of huge hounds, and a basketful of puppies, which rested on the King’s knees, but which was upheld from his neck by a gold chain. From the roof hung a gilded cage, in which were white turtle-doves, the plumage of their necks marked by a sable circlet of feathers. Occasionally, two or three apes were to be seen in this ‘Noah’s Ark,’ as it was called,” some of the inmates of which used to amuse themselves by plaiting ribbons, while Chicot made anagrams on the names of the courtiers.

Able as Chicot was in this respect, and expert in quoting Marco Polo, Galen, and sentences from the Breviary, it may, of course, be questioned whether he was so skilful in his dramatic plottings and counter-plottings against the traitorous Guises as M. Dumas has represented him to be. He probably did not meddle in such serious affairs; and I think the ability of the jester is set too high when he is exhibited in positions that would puzzle a Machiavelli, in disguises that have a very melodramatic tone and aspect, and in situations of peril from which he releases himself as dexterously as the virtuous hero of a transpontine semi-tragedy. Chicot, indeed, was well qualified to effect his release from any peril where odds were not very strongly against him, for the jester was in the habit of daily fencing with the King, and bore the reputation of being one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom. He could apply his cunning of fence to excellent purpose; and if, half in sport, he would engage with noble courtiers in a fight with whips, there was no man, at once insulted, vindictive, and self-possessed, who could more politely and fatally pass his sword through the body of the individual from whom he had suffered wrong. The tongue of Chicot could be as sharp as his sword, and it inflicted, perhaps, more exquisite torture on the nobles whom he hated or the courtiers whom he despised, than if he had passed his blade between the ribs, which he would “poke” with as much audacity as he used when, seating himself on the same royal chair with the King, he would call him _Henriquet_, and greedily devour the dainties presented to his master. At the council-board too Chicot was often present, where his wit worked as profitably as that of any grave-looking member present; albeit, while he enunciated his profound political maxims, he was perhaps engaged in making paper boats, and arranging them into a fleet. On the most serious occasions, a sally from Chicot at the head of the table, would cause the King to laugh. Solemn statesmen would then look grave, and while the royal laughter was yet pealing, Chicot would utter a stentorian “_Silence there!_” which would cause the King to suddenly close his mouth, and the councillors to open theirs, moved, in spite of themselves, to lively hilarity.

By way of sample of what was then probably considered a rather neat joke, and showing how Henri profited by being constantly in company with Chicot, I may cite the traditionary incident of the monk preaching from the back of an ass. “Which is the preacher?” said the King, “for they both speak at the same time.” “The one beneath is the most eloquent,” replied Chicot, “but the uppermost one speaks the best French.” The power wielded by this influential buffoon is also indicated by M. Dumas, in the observation made by the former when he learns a most important State secret which he resolves to keep to himself. “Why should I communicate it to any one else?” said he, “Is it not I who am King of France?” He had mimicked his master so often, that he almost thought himself king;--like Elliston when, in tipsy majesty, he represented George IV. at the Drury Lane coronation, and hiccupped benedictions on the heads of his laughing subjects in the pit. With Chicot, however, the case was less imaginary; for when Henri was about to take a fatal step, a sign from the jester would set him right, and the gentleman buffoon might then have been justified in exclaiming, “Did I not say rightly, that _I_ was the real King in France?” We may fancy him, on his long legs, saying this, and by raising himself, looking longer than ever.

Here is not quite an imaginary picture of the wisdom of the “_fou_,” as he looks over a chess-board at which he is sitting alone, meditating the while on the dangers threatening Henri III. To one who questions him, he replies, “I am disquieted about the King. At chess, you see, the King is but an insignificant personage. He has no will of his own; can only move one step forward or back; one step to the right or to the left, while he is surrounded by foes on the alert; by knights who jump three squares at a time; by a mob of pawns, who close round him; and if he be only ill-advised, he is a lost and ruined king in no time.”

It is the great merit of Chicot, if Dumas has painted him faithfully, that he was not merely the “plaisant” of the King, but his protector. He could be, and ordinarily was, indifferent and sarcastic in look, speech, and general demeanour; but this gentleman-jester, with a sword on his thigh, and a duty to perform to Henri, could also be as eloquent, and put on an air as noble as any great man with countless quarterings on his shield. We may conclude, from the limning of the traditionary portrait in the ‘Dame de Monsoreau,’ that if Chicot loved his jest well, he loved his king (worthless as he was) even better.

Again, if we turn to ‘Les Quarante-Cinq,’ in search of further information touching the qualities of this famous _plaisant_, we find him brave and careless, and yet fully appreciating life generally, which came to him in a very enjoyable form. In this latter work, we find him loving wine, and eccentric in act and speech. He was not close cropped, or shaven, like the earlier jesters. His hair was black and curled, but his brow was bald long before the period of middle age. He brought to perfection, says the author of ‘Les Quarante-Cinq,’ “that art dear to the ancient mimes, which consists in changing, by scientific contractions, the natural play of the muscles, and the habitual play of the physiognomy.”

Chicot cannot be said to have been a graceful fellow. His arms and legs were immoderately long. He was all nerves, muscle, and bone; active, addicted to raillery, ingenious in contrivances, and he laughed silently like an Indian. After having been prodigal, he became parsimonious, and saved a little fortune. He ordinarily spoke with a Gascon accent, but he could change that at will, and it was as easy for him to assume any other as it was for him to assume any rank. He maintained a superiority over his royal master through the fears of the latter, and the author of ‘Les Quarante-Cinq’ represents Henri as having a superstitious dread of his jester, who was occasionally a sort of phantom-buffoon, suddenly appearing and disappearing in a way which perplexed Henri, but which admitted of very natural explanations. We see him in the last-mentioned work, as a scholar and a man of taste, a purist in classical knowledge, able to construe Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and reading, and sometimes sleeping over, the Essays of Montaigne.

Had this jester not been a man of singular ability, the King would not have employed him on diplomatic missions of some delicacy and difficulty. He went on such missions to Henri of Navarre; and Dumas represents him to us as saving the life of the Béarnais, in his first fight at Cahors, where Henri’s bold soul carried his then cowardly body into the very thickest of the _mêlée_. It is said to have been on this occasion that the King of Navarre induced Chicot to promise to enter his service whenever his old master, Henri III., should die. Flögel, Cardinal Perron, and Sully, only mention Chicot as the court jester of Henri IV.; he was however in the service of both Kings. He was as familiar with his new master as with the old one, and the Bourbon King was as indulgent to him as the old Valois monarch had been. His boldness was especially exhibited in satirical allusions to the King of Navarre being of the reformed religion, and to suggestions touching political matters generally. In the ‘Mémoires pour l’Histoire de France’ (vol. ii. 72), it is stated that when the Duke of Parma came to France, Chicot said to the King, before all the courtiers, “My friend, I see very well that all you do will signify nothing, unless you either turn Catholic, or pretend you are one.” Another time, Chicot said to him, “I am convinced that to be peaceably King of France, you would give both Papists and Huguenots to Lucifer’s clerk.” “I am not surprised,” said he another time to his Majesty, “that so many persons desire to be Kings. It is a good trade, and by working at it only an hour in a day, one may make sufficient provision for the rest of the week, without being obliged to one’s neighbours. But, for Heaven’s sake! my friend, take care, and keep out of the hands of the Leaguers, for if you should fall into them, they would hang you up like a hog’s pudding, and write upon your gibbet--‘Good lodgings to let, at the Crown of France and Navarre.’”

Of such quality was the bold humour of Chicot. Of his bravery, we have an instance in his conduct at the siege of Rouen, where he behaved so gallantly that he made Henri of Lorraine, Count of Chaligny, prisoner with his own hand. He led his captive to the King, saying to the latter, “Here, I make you a present of the Count; keep what I took, and now give you.” The Count was so enraged at being captured by a court fool, that he smote poor Chicot on the head, so violently, with the hilt of his sword, that the jester died of the cruel blow, after lingering for a fortnight. During this latter period, a dying Huguenot soldier shared his room. A priest visited the Huguenot, but, at the moment of his dying, refused to administer consolation, on the ground of his being a heretic. The orthodox Chicot could not witness this with patience. Weak as he was, he arose to chastise the priest for his lack of charity; but he was too feeble for the achievement, and he returned to bed, only to die. The honest Gascon thus ended his life, and his last act exhibits, as much as anything, the daring and impatience of his character.

Contemporary with the Gascon Chicot, was the Norman Maître Guillaume Le Marchand, a dreaming half-witted fellow, who passed from the household of the Cardinal of Bourbon to be “fou” in that of Henry IV. Master Guillaume was accustomed to say that God created angels, but the devil made pages. These last never lost an opportunity of tormenting the “natural,” who was quite as active in taking advantage of every occasion to revenge himself. He would then take out his “little bird,” as he called his cudgel, pretty well break the bones of the offending page, and would roar all the time, as if he himself were being beaten. Guillaume was a Roman Catholic, like Chicot, but he was less tolerant. He so hated the reformed religion, and the Reformation itself, that he always used the words “ruined religion,” or the “Ruin,” to show a fool’s contempt for what he could not understand.

The King certainly did not value him as he valued Chicot. When any one uttered an opinion in his hearing, unsupported by reason, Henry was accustomed to bid them go and keep company with Master Guillaume. The Paris _gamins_ were in the habit of hooting him in the streets, and noble counts made little of employing him to scare away a whole saloon-full of ladies by the performance of some beastly trick. Even Cardinals would condescend to argue with this Norman fool, and boast of victories in disputes where there was small common sense and less wit on either side, and little honour to be gained by triumphing over a “natural.”

As a companion to Guillaume, the name of Pierre du Four l’Evêque is met with; but he was a street fool, and not a “fou à titre d’office.” Under their names, and that of Chicot, some of the best political satires of this period were published. The author could not safely print his own name; and he found not only safety but profit in publishing his book under the name of some more popular fool.

Some authors rank Joubert, surnamed Angoulevent, with the court fools of Henri IV. The surname was common to some of the clubs or memberships which met under the inspiration of Folly. Joubert was president of some such society. He called himself “noble” and “gentleman of the King’s chamber;” but this was in joke, for Joubert seems to have been connected with the theatre at the Hôtel de Bourgogne. His title of “Prince of Fools” procured for him some privileges granted by the Parliament, and some protection at the tribunals of law and justice. This is explained at great length by Du Tillot, and also by Dr. Rigollet, in their respective works on this subject. Joubert was probably a well-esteemed _farceur_, but I only find him once in connection with Henri IV., namely, when a woman committed suicide by hanging herself, and the King gave her property, forfeited to the crown by the felonious act, to Joubert, “surnamed Angoulement, Prince of Fools.”

Chicot, with his Gascon accent, was accustomed to excite the laughter of the courts of Henri III. and Henri IV. Maret, the servant and _plaisant_ of Louis XIII. tried to effect the same object by imitating the Gascon twang of Gascon nobles. Even Richelieu once imitated this bad example, bidding the Duke d’Espernon to get rid of his provincial accent, and at the same time speaking with that accent himself. The Cardinal ended by hoping that the Duke would not be offended. “Why should I take offence at it?” said the Duke; “it is only what the King’s fool does in my hearing every day.”

Maret showed more jealousy than wit, when the King’s page Bravadas was suddenly preferred to be the friend and playfellow of Louis. At dinner, on the day when this sudden growth of favour was first made manifest, the fool, pointing to some mushrooms, bade the lacquey bring him “a spoonful of _Bravadas_.” On many of the royal customs this jester was trenchant enough, particularly on the custom observed by the King, of eating alone; while other customs were observed by him only when surrounded by a circle of courtiers. “Voilà deux choses de votre métier,” said Maret, “dont je ne pourrois jamais m’accommoder.”

At the same court with Maret, and accounted as a fool, but not decorated with, or stigmatized by, the official title, we find, attached to the King’s brother, Gaston of Orléans, Louis de Neufgermain, a man whose silliness and vanity made him the sport of the court, and whose affected skill in poetry acquired for him the appellation, which he seriously accepted and proudly displayed, of “Poëte Hétéroclite to his royal highness the Duke of Orleans.” This very select poet penned rhymes which would not be acknowledged in the bon-bon Parnassus of the Rue des Lombards. They were execrable and pointless. For the most part they consisted of lines which he supplied to words given to him, for which he was to find rhymes. It was the sport of the court to puzzle him by intractable words, such as in English would be _orange_ and _month_; and to extricate himself from the difficulty, he wrote the wildest nonsense, and the wilder this was, the more the audience laughed at the fool.

With Louis XIV. we approach the last of the French “plaisants.” As Margaret of Navarre had Guerin to make lively her leisure hours, so the consort of Louis XIV. maintained Tricomini, who was hardly amusing. He was remarkable more for rough, unpalatable, but irrefutable truths than for wit; and we pass him by, to notice L’Angeli, whose greatest honour it is that he is named by Boileau, in a way too which shows how fortunate a fool was the last of the official jesters of France.

“Un poëte à la cour fut jadis à la mode,
Mais des Fous aujourd’hui c’est le plus incommode,
Et l’esprit le plus beau, l’auteur le plus poli,
Ne parviendra jamais au sort de l’Angeli.”