French; and we commence quite early enough with the latter, when we
begin from the period of the father of Hugh Capet, whose fool comes
before us in a very solemn and melodramatic way. The celebrated Duke,
in 943, went on an expedition against the Normans, and among his
followers, says the ever lively Ordericus Vitalis, was his buffoon,
_mimus_, or _joculator_, as he is called by the chronicler. One day,
at the Duke’s table, the conversation fell on some holy personages who
had died in the odour of sanctity. The _joculator_, being a fool, was a
freethinker; and he dealt so rudely and sarcastically with these dead
and sanctified individuals, in his ribald remarks, that the avenging
justice of Heaven was aroused, and, says the smart Norman historian, a
violent storm bursting forth from the skies, the lightnings flashed,
and a thunderbolt, tearing down from the clouds, dashed through the
roof, and at one stroke annihilated the jester and all who had moved
him to asperse the Saints, or who had joined in the laugh he had raised
against them.
Taking the _Mimus_ to be a species of court fool who sang to the
accompaniment of some instrument, when required, then Louis VIII. had
such an official at court, though whether this _mimus_ held his post
by patent or not, is not mentioned by Nicholas de Braia, who notices
the fact itself. This chronicler describes a grand banquet given by
the King, shortly after his coronation, and which must have been a very
jovial affair. “While they warm their hearts with the genial gift of
Bacchus,” says the poet historian, “and care is swept away from the
brow of the Prince by draughts of various wines, a mime celebrated for
his skill on the harp, rises, and smiting his instrument, sings the
praises of the King.” These praises were very highly strung indeed;
and we only need to be told that censure, if necessary, or sarcasm, if
opportunity allowed, was scattered amid the laudation, to be assured
that the _mimus_ here spoken of was really something of the official
fool also.
Although examples constantly present themselves of the unlicensed
liberty which the French _plaisants_ took with their masters, instances
are not wanting of their delicacy or timidity. For instance, when the
fleet of Philip was captured or destroyed by that of Edward III.,
there was no one at court bold enough to communicate tidings of the
disaster to the King, except a court fool, whose name has not, however,
been mentioned by any historian. Going into the royal chamber, the
_fou_ began muttering, “Those cowardly Englishmen! The chicken-hearted
Britons!” “How so, Cousin?” asked Philip. “How so? Why, because they
have not courage enough to jump into the sea, like your French sailors,
who went headlong over from their ships, leaving those to the enemy
who did not care to follow them!” And thus the King learned, by a most
unpleasant method, the humiliation that had come upon him as well as
defeat. The sarcasm must have fallen as painfully on the King’s ear as
the assertion of the _Journal des Débats_ on the ear of all England,
with respect to those Indian calamities which included the massacre of
our women and children, namely, that France looked upon it all, “with
curiosity and satisfaction!”
Saintfoix, in his History of Paris, and indeed many other authors
conclude, because Charles V. of France announced to the authorities
at Troyes in Champagne, that his fool was dead, and requested them to
provide him with another, that the town in question monopolized the
provision of this article for the court; but Dr. Rigollet, author of
‘Les Monnaies des Évêques,’ etc., quotes an autograph letter of the
same King, dated February 1364, in which Charles orders the cashier of
his treasury to disburse 200 francs, “to fetch hither a fool for us who
is now in the Bourbonnois.” If this be not conclusive, the fact that
the royal jesters came from parts of France where the municipality of
Troyes could have had neither authority nor influence, would seem to
be more so. Though, after all, the Champagne magistrates _may_ have
procured the jesters where they knew a superior specimen was to be
found, without regard to locality.
Once engaged, the poor slave--for he was little else--could not sleep
out of the palace, unpermitted, without danger of a whipping when he
returned. Neither could he lay aside his dress, without sanction of his
master; and even then, were he to clap a sword on his thigh, and so try
to pass abroad for a gentleman, and this offence came to the ears of
the “King of the Ribalds,” the provost-marshal of the King’s household,
the fool might reckon on being scourged till the blood ran down to his
heels. Further, it does not appear that the fool could at will divest
himself of his office. He was bound to serve, and it was only the royal
word that could set him free from his bonds.
In one or two instances the monarch exhibited some attachment to his
_fou_, by honouring his memory after death. The King Charles V. buried
two of his jesters beneath sumptuous monuments. This King, too, was
called “the Wise.” One _plaisant_ thus honoured was interred in the
church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, but I can find no account of his
tomb in any description of the church to which I have had access. The
second was a _fou_ of some condition apparently, for he bore a noble
name, and that is not the case with any _fou à titre d’office_ that
I have yet heard of. The one in question was Thevenin de St. Ligier,
whose body was deposited in the church of St. Maurice de Senlis. The
tomb is described as being of stone, ten feet by five, on which lies a
figure of a man in a long robe, whose head and feet are of alabaster.
He wears the fool’s hood, and other insignia of his office, among
which is the long wand, which he grasps in his hand. The scroll of the
tomb is composed of very small figures elaborately carved, and the
inscription tells the reader that “Here lies Thevenin de Saint-Ligier,
_fou_ of the King our Lord, who deceased on the 11th of July, in the
year of Grace 1374. Pray God for his soul.”
We see the _fou_ hardly less honoured when, instead of being splendidly
interred by his master, he follows the body of his patron to the
tomb, amid the esteemed friends and followers especially selected to
fittingly grace the solemn occasion. This was the case in 1416, at
the obsequies of John, Duke de Berri. The funeral of that prince was
a very stately affair; and not the least sincere mourner who was near
the coffin, was the Duke’s favourite _plaisant_, who was attired in
a full suit of sables, and bore himself with as much dignity as any
noble there present. If my readers choose to accompany me any further,
they will find German _narrs_ making a mockery of woe, but no samples
of their honouring departed worth, as may be found among the _fous_ of
France.
It was not every _fou_ who was a _plaisant_ to his master. Louis XI.
must have discovered as much after taking into his service the jester
of his deceased brother, Charles, Duke de Guyenne. The Duke and his
mistress, “the lady of Monsoreau,” in the month of May 1472, being
at dessert, divided between them a peach, presented to them by the
kind Abbot of Saint-Jean d’Angeli. The lady and her lord _par amour_,
speedily died, and their _fou_ passed into the service of the King.
Some time after, Louis XI., then praying in his oratory, his fool
standing by, held a little discourse and bargaining, as was his wont,
with Our Lady of Clery. The staple of the royal discourse with the
Virgin, was to this effect, that he and she being on the most friendly
terms, mutually patronizing each other, she of course would arrange
with Heaven that the King should not suffer for the murder of his
brother; but that the Divine vengeance might very appropriately fall
on the Abbot of Saint-Jean d’Angeli, whom Louis had employed to commit
the deed, and who, as the monarch assured the Virgin, was a very sorry
rascal indeed, fit for nothing better than everlasting perdition. “Just
arrange this little matter for me, as I would have it,” said the King,
“and I have in my eye some very pretty presents that I will offer
at your altar.” According to Brantôme, this pleasant confession and
proposed arrangement were overheard by the _fou_, whom Louis looked
upon as an amusing imbecile without discretion. But the _plaisant_
loved his old master; and he must have as bitterly hated as he little
feared his new patron, if it be true that he accused him of the crime
before an august company at a grand banquet. The fool was probably
soon disposed of, but when the great Duke of Burgundy laid fratricide
to the charge of Louis, the latter met the charge manfully. He shut
up the Abbot of Saint-Jean d’Angeli in a dungeon, and appointed two
commissioners to examine into the accusation. Shortly after, the Abbot
was found strangled in prison, some said, by himself; others declared,
by the devil; while some thought of the King, and said nothing,--which
was what Louis himself did. The examination having proceeded thus far,
the King rewarded the two commissioners. He made Louis d’Amboise,
Bishop of Albi; and to Pierre de Sacierges he gave a sinecure post of
great value. Therewith the examination was at an end, and Louis, at his
next _tête-à-tête_ with the Holy Virgin of Clery, probably talked like
a man who had been wronged by false suspicion, and had come cleverly,
if not triumphantly, out of a trying ordeal.
Having mentioned the great Duke of Burgundy, I may here appropriately
add a word or two of the famous “Le Glorieux,” the French jester to
Charles the Bold. Le Glorieux was a facetious fellow, and as fearless
as facetious. His master, Duke Charles, used to compare himself with
Hannibal. After the overthrow at Granson, Duke and fool were galloping
in search of safety, with many others. The Duke was in gloomy wrath, Le
Glorieux was full of wicked gaiety. “Uncle,” cried he to Charles, “this
is the prettiest way of being like Hannibal that I ever saw.”
So again, subsequently to the defeat sustained by the Duke before
Beauvais, Charles was conducting some ambassadors over his arsenal. In
one of the rooms the host remarked, “This chamber contains the keys of
all the cities in France.” At these words, Le Glorieux began fumbling
in his pockets, and looking about the room with an air of anxiety.
“Now, ass,” cried the Duke, “what are you searching for so anxiously?”
“I am looking,” answered Le Glorieux, with a significant smile,--“I am
looking for the keys of Beauvais.”
A lost battle would seem, indeed, to have always heightened the spirits
of the licensed fool. We have another instance in the case of the
jester of the Marquis del Guasto, a general in the service of Charles
V. While his captors were hauling over his baggage, after the day of
Cerizoles, his fool exclaimed, “Ay, ay, you will find all sorts of
valuable things there, except spurs, of which truly my master has
plenty, but he keeps them all to enable him to get quicker out of the
fray.”
“_Poeta regius_,” to quote the very words of Ménage (in the third
volume, p. 183, of the ‘Ana,’) “en bon François signifie ‘Le Fou du
Roi.’” Otherwise, King’s poet, as royal poet laureate, signifies in
good English, as I may here put it, ‘King’s Fool.’ For this reason
Ménage is inclined to reckon Andrelini, who was the “crowned poet”
of Louis XII. and Anne of Brittany, among the “fous du Roi;” and he
refers us to Bayle upon that subject. The latter, however, does not
bring Andrelini (who styled himself _poeta regius et regineus_) nearer
to the cap and bells than by showing that he poured forth verses in
astonishing abundance, and was paid for them by the hundred. He appears
also to have enjoyed somewhat of the license and privilege of the
jester, for he uttered bitter satires against the theologians at a time
when to attack them was to run the risk of death. And yet Andrelini
shot his bolts with impunity, partly because he reflected lustre on the
University of Paris. He was a jester, probably, only as John Heywood
was with us. He lived as loosely as any titled jester of them all, and
his lax rule of life is sufficiently indicated by Erasmus, in the words
(see the twentieth Letter in the 4th book of the Collected Letters of
Erasmus) addressed to Peter Barbirius, and which imply that the writer
could tell more if he would; that Peter knew a good deal about the
matter himself; that Andrelini was a loose fellow; and that his rule of
life was tolerably notorious. “Quam non casta erat illius professio!
Neque cuiquam obscurum erat qualis esset vita!”
We now come to some renowned names in the register of the _plaisants_.
The first of these is Triboulet. The individual known by this nickname
does not appear to have been in the service of Louis XII., as is
sometimes stated. Indeed, Du Tillot professes to be ignorant of
the names of any official fool in the court of that King or of his
predecessor, Charles VIII. But he has no doubt whatever of the official
presence of jesters at both courts. Such presence was a matter of
strict etiquette, and Du Tillot supposes that Anne of Brittany, the
wife of both the above-mentioned sovereigns, having introduced a very
serious tone at court, the wearers of motley only played a subordinate
part.
With Francis I., two of the most famous of Trench “plaisans” appear
on the stage, Caillette and Triboulet. These names were fictitious,
but they are the only appellations by which this merry pair, who hated
each other heartily, were known in their own time, or are known in
ours. History, too, has dealt confusedly with both jesters, confusing
their biographies, jokes, and adventures, and occasionally forgetting
that there were two Caillettes, father and son, of whom the latter was
appointed fool against his own inclination.
According to popular tradition, Caillette was to Triboulet, what the
simpleton in the _Auberge des Adrets_ was to Robert Macaire,--the
scapegoat for the other’s offences. He was, we are told, idiotic, or
pretended to be so; and when witty, it was more after the fashion of
a clown in a pantomime, than that of a happy low comedian, to which
Triboulet may sometimes be compared; though the latter occasionally
interfered with politics and spoke little brilliant things like a fine
gentleman in a comedy. Jean Marot, however, says of him, that he had as
much wit when he was thirty as when he was three years old. The court
pages, say the biographers, could do as they pleased with Caillette,
and on one occasion they nailed him by the ear to a beam. The poor fool
thought he was condemned to remain there for life. On being discovered
by some police authority, he was questioned; but he only replied that
he did not know who had fixed him there. The pages were confronted with
him, but each declared in turn, “I had nothing to do with it,” and each
time, Caillette added, “And I had nothing to do with it either.” The
alleged offence was, that the fool had cut off a page’s aiguillettes
and attached them to his person in the guise of a tail. A similar
story is told of Triboulet by the “Bibliophile Jacob” (Paul Lacroix)
in his ‘Deux Fous,’ to which volume I am indebted for many antiquarian
details touching the discipline of jesters at French courts, as well
as for various incidents in the lives both of Triboulet and his rival
Caillette.
Tradition, without bringing down to us any samples of the quality of
Caillette, was long inconsistent with itself, by diversely representing
this jester, now as a sorry, and at other times as a very brilliant,
practitioner of his craft. There can be little doubt of the existence
of a father and son of this name and office; and Paul Lacroix has
followed out this idea in his work, noticed above.
According to this writer, who, it is necessary to remember, mingles a
good deal of fiction with his antiquarian facts, the elder Caillette
was a very inferior wit to Triboulet, and hung himself out of vexation
at having been defeated by him at a match of cudgelling of brains. I do
not know how much of reality or how much of merely fanciful is included
in the following details; some portions may be less _vrai_ than
_vraisemblable_, and with this warning, I place before my readers an
outline of the younger Caillette, whose elaborate full-length has been
superbly painted by a master in the romance of history.
While the father was exercising his vocation at the court of France,
the son was sojourning in the château of the Count de St. Vallier,
as a friend rather than a dependant. As a youth, he had attracted
the attention of the famous Constable de Bourbon by his beauty and
intellect. The Constable could not believe him to be of the low origin
commonly assigned to him, and it was at Bourbon’s instigation that the
Count de St. Vallier took the boy into his household, and educated him
in company with the Count’s renowned daughter, Diane de Poictiers.
In such society the younger Caillette remained, happy, loved, and
light-hearted, till the period of the marriage of Diane with M. de
Brézé, Grand Seneschal of Normandy. From this time, his character
became changed. He lost his gaiety and his happy carelessness; studied
more, in order to forget his sorrows, among which the circumstance of
his father holding the office of fool to the King, was by no means the
least.
Francis I. was at Moulins, where he had held the son of the Constable
at the baptismal font, when he heard of the death of the elder
Caillette. This high festival, celebrated at Moulins, had attracted
a noble company, and among them was the Count de Saint-Vallier, with
the younger Caillette, then about nineteen, in attendance on him. The
death of the father, the fool, had more touched Francis than the demise
of any of his ministers could have done; and when he heard and saw
who was in attendance upon the Count de Saint-Vallier, he resolved to
perpetuate the name of the deceased by appointing his son to the vacant
office. The appointment was resisted by the noble patrons of the son,
and by the latter himself with the energy of despair. But all in vain.
The youth, who had looked forward to wield a sword, was compelled to
carry the fool’s bauble. He would have committed suicide, but for the
intervention of his confessor.
This jester against his will, is described as being of noble mien,
perfect in figure, graceful in manner, attractive and spiritual in
physiognomy, and singularly elegant in his expression. He charmed
the King by his admirable reading of poetry, by his happy facility
of improvising rhymes, and by his readiness to compose verses, which
Francis did not disdain sometimes to pass off as his own. This learned,
philosophical, classical, and noble fool, who possessed more natural
qualities than the King himself, was of course loved by many a great
lady at court; but _his_ homage was for one alone, and that _one_ was
Diane de Poictiers.
But here we assuredly get into romance; which continues to run in
this wise. The Count de Saint-Vallier was sentenced to death for
alleged complicity in the treason of the Constable against his country.
Caillette exerted himself with unexampled vigour to procure the release
of his old patron, for he had obtained from Diane a promise that she
would reward him for succeeding in the rescue of her father from a
terrible death, by kissing him in the presence of the whole court of
France. It was into that presence that he proudly brought, at last, the
pardon which his prayers, and still more his ingenuity, had wrested,
from the King; but at that moment poison was slaying him, and it was
only as the dying fool drew his last breath that Diane stooped to kiss
him, and thereby gave sweetness to bitter death. He died in a condition
of ecstasy.
“Holy St. Bagpipe!” exclaimed Triboulet, “pray for the defunct! I am
now first titled fool in the court of France.”
We may dismiss, as unfounded, the legends, and, as unsaid, the wit
touching Triboulet and his remarks on the folly of the Emperor Charles
V. trusting to the honour of Francis I. by passing through France,
and the greater folly of Francis in not taking advantage of the
circumstance to seize upon the Emperor. Triboulet was in his grave
before the last delicate affair was even negotiated (1538), and all the
smart sayings had been uttered previously, under similar circumstances,
by other jesters. Indeed, the best things attributed to Triboulet
are of questionable authority. Thus, we hear of his complaining to
Francis of a nobleman who had threatened to beat him to death for
some impertinent joke. “If he does,” said the King, “I will hang him
a quarter of an hour afterwards.” “Ah, Sire!” exclaimed the _fou_,
“couldn’t you contrive to hang him a quarter of an hour previously?”
Something like this story is told of at least half-a-dozen wearers of
motley.
There is another story told which certainly refers to Triboulet. He was
passing over a bridge in company with a courtier, who observed that the
bridge had no “garde-fou” or “parafool,” as the common term ran for
a _parapet_. “Surely,” remarked Triboulet to the observation, “the
people here did not expect that we two should cross it together.”
There is something more of a joke in this fou’s reply to another
courtier who saw Triboulet galloping or caracoling on a magnificent
horse when Francis made his public entry into Rouen. “You had better
go more quietly, Cousin,” said the courtier, “or you will suffer for
it.” “Alas, Sir,” replied the _plaisant_, “what can I do? I stick my
spurs into my horse’s flanks to keep him quiet; and the more I prick,
the more unruly I find the obstinate beast!” Such sayings as these
were only tricks of vocation. Triboulet did not lack common sense, nor
omit to use it for the benefit of those who appeared to have lacked
their own. This was the case when Francis gave a courier two thousand
crowns, as he mounted his horse, and proceeded on a mission to Rome;
which place he undertook to reach within a space of time in which no
human being could have accomplished the journey. “I will put you down
in my register, Sire, as a fool, for believing a man can do what is
impossible, and for paying him four times what were his due, even if
he could achieve what he undertakes to do.” “But, if he fails,” said
Francis, “he will restore me my money.” “Will he, by my bagpipes!”
exclaimed Triboulet; “then he will be a greater fool than yourself, and
so I shall have two to register instead of one.”
There is another _trait_ illustrative of Triboulet, which has,
nevertheless, been attributed, if I remember rightly, to the jester of
Leopold of Austria, when planning his invasion of Switzerland. Francis
I. summoned a council in 1525, to deliberate on the necessary measures
for the celebrated campaign which ended in the capture of the monarch
at Pavia. The counsellors did not spare their brains; and, at length
having duly and unanimously decided on the most feasible means for
successfully entering Italy, they broke up, and rose to separate.
“A moment, wise Sirs,” said Triboulet, as he lay, supported on his
elbow, at the feet of the King. “I pray your stupendous wisdoms to
tarry an instant, while I intimate that, although you may fancy you
have delivered yourself of the best possible advice to my cousin
Francis, you have really forgotten the most important point of all.”
“Ay! ay! merry cousin,” exclaimed the King, “will your sage worship
inform us how that may be?”
“Just this,” answered Triboulet, with his merry chuckle. “They have
told you how best to get into Italy. Now, you do not intend, I suppose,
to stay there for ever; and your fool thinks they would have done well
if they had counselled your Majesty, not merely how to get into Italy,
but how to get out of it again.”
“Tush! joyous companion,” said Francis; “it is not needful. We shall
return _tambour battant_.”
“Very fine,” rejoined the fool. “Vos tambours seront battus;” and at
this _équivoque_, the council dispersed, laughing.