Part 24

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.”