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.”