The History of Court Fools

Under the word Ministrelli, a term said to belong to “Monk’s Latin,” were anciently comprehended in France, not merely Minstrels, but Buffoons, Mimes, and Jesters generally. They are called in common parlance, says Du Fresne, in his Glossary, “Menestreux or Menestriers,” because they belong to the lower order of officers at court—“quod minoribus aulæ ministris accenserentur.” The same author shows the early identity of the minstrel with the jester, by quoting an ordinance regulating the arrangement of a fishermen’s religious festival held in early times at Toulouse; and which is to this effect. “Also, the fishermen shall be assembled, who ought to be present in the procession on that day with the ministri or joculatores; because the aforesaid fishermen are bound to have, on this special occasion, ministri or joculatores, in honour of the cross.... And they should lead the procession, with the ministri or joculatores beating the drum, as far as the church of St. Stephen.” From joculator, the French obtain their word jongleur, and through the latter we have our own term juggler. The monks made little distinction between different orders of minstrels, who were usually described by them as minstrels, or jesters; signifying that the officials designated under those names were one and the same. There is little doubt, at all events, of the French jester having ultimately sprung from the profession of the minstrel, when the latter was in its decline. It is perplexing, however, to find that although the minstrel or joculator is continually represented as being something of a musician, yet that Du Fresne, who frequently so describes him, also quotes a law of 1381, wherein we read that this worthy was altogether forbidden from playing on either a stringed or wind instrument: “Nullus ministreys seu jogulator audeat pinsare vel sonare instrumentum cujuscunque generis.” The law was evidently not of universal application, as may be gathered from Aimonius, who, when treating of the miracles of St. Benedict, shows us a buffoon, both singing and playing, in his vocation of bard. His words are: “Tanta vero illis securitas, ut scurram se præcedere facerent, qui musico instrumento res fortiter gestas et priorum bella præcineret, quatenus his acrius incitarentur.”

Enough, however, has been previously said on this subject; I will therefore turn from it, to that of the costume of the French “fou.” Most of the French writers on the subject of court jesters, maintain that the colours of the native fool were, almost invariably, yellow and green, striped. Many scores of pages have been written to show that these colours were selected, because they were in little estimation by modish people; yellow being generally worn by executioners, or by criminals, and green signifying jealousy and various other bad qualities. All this may be ingenious, but it is purely imaginary; for we find French court buffoons glittering in scarlet and gold, as well as green and yellow, and sometimes dressed in suits in which were to be counted the seven hues of Iris herself.

One especial circumstance is remarkable in our neighbours’ fools; namely, their consumption or waste of shoe-leather. In 1404, I meet, in the Collection de la Chambre des Comptes, with an entry of forty-seven pairs of shoes to Hancelin Coc, fool of Charles VI., and of seven pairs for the fool’s “varlet,” showing that Sir Witless was sometimes thought sufficiently noble or gentle to be worthy of a man to attend upon him; and yet Hancelin was dressed in a suit of iraigne, a material of which I can find no explanation in any French author, but which is described as of a reddish brown, and which was also used “pour garnir la chaière nécessaire pour servir au retrait du dit seigneur, le roy Charles VI.”

Thus the French fools were not always attired in green and yellow, and an additional proof is to be found in the fact, that on the occasion of the marriage, at Abbeville, of Louis XII., with Mary, the sister of Henry VIII. (subsequently wife of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk), among the personages, allegorical or otherwise, that were made to take part in the rejoicings, was to be seen the figure of Triboulet, the King’s fool, in a serge dress of red and yellow stripes. In a succeeding page referring to this jester, another proof will be found that green and yellow were not the exclusively official colours worn by the jesters at the court of France.

It is not easy,—I should rather say, it is impossible, to define with any certainty the period at which the “Plaisans,” as our merry friends are sometimes called, first held official rank, and were entitled to assume the appellation of Fou by right of legal appointment to the office. Flögel simply states, “the custom was so general, that historians expressed some surprise when they had to speak of a French court without an official fool in it.” Two such examples we have in Philip Augustus and Charles VII., neither of whom had any relish for the antics and humour of the green-and-yellow-striped mirth makers.

The earliest example of a French court fool, given by Dr. Rigollet, is in the reign of Hugh Capet; but Flögel goes back a full century, and about the year 894 finds one, named Jean, at the court of Charles the Simple. This good fellow’s influence was so great, that Charles once remarked to him, he thought they had better change places. As Jean did not look well pleased at the proposal, Charles asked him if he were not content at the idea of being a king. “Oh, content enough,” was the reply; “but I should be exceedingly ashamed at having such a fool.” It was this fool who once tried his master’s nerves, by rushing into his room one morning, with the exclamation, “Oh, Sire, such news! four thousand men have risen in the city.” “What!” cried the startled King; “with what intention have they risen?” “Well,” said Jean, placing his finger on his nose, “probably with the intention of lying down again at bedtime.”

It is possible that this fool, like his master, was rather German than 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.

The “Bibliophile Jacob” says of Triboulet, that he was as truly an historical personage as any “grand pannetier,” or “bouteiller de la couronne.” Triboulet was a native of Blois, where he led a wild life in his youth, but entered early in the service of the Count d’Angoulême, afterwards Francis I., in the quality of jester. He may have been called the town jester, for he was for ever in the streets, playing on the bagpipes, basking in the sun, saying sharp things to all who passed near him, and impudently importuning everybody for money. It was in Blois that Triboulet cut the “pourpoint de livrée” of one of the pages of the Count d’Angoulême, as the young gentleman was hurrying through the streets on a mission connected with the coming visit of Louis XII. and Anne of Brittany. The page, unconscious of the trick played him, whereby he looked like a monkey without his tail, was hailed by his young fellows at court with shouts of laughter. But when their laughter was at an end, they resolved to avenge the insult. They carried Triboulet off beyond the ramparts of the city, and, near the permanent gallows which was then no uncommon ornament in the vicinity of great cities, they began tormenting him, by pricking his feet with their daggers, dragging him by the hair, and burning his moustaches. This done, one merry and merciful young gentleman, looking at the fool’s long ears (for which he was remarkable), proposed that he should be hung by them to the gibbet; and accordingly, they nailed him by the right ear in such a position that he was only supported by his toes, and his pitiful beseechings only raised the mirth of the tender-hearted young pages.

If we may believe the Bibliophile, who is, indeed, as frequently a romancer as an antiquary, it was as some compensation for this outrage, that Francis of Angoulême created Triboulet his fool by patent. The same writer adds, that the pages found the jester’s tongue even longer than his ears; and, “remarkable fact, from this period, Triboulet, who was then about four-and-twenty years of age, suddenly ceased to be idiotic and imbecile, and became a witty, diverting, and crafty buffoon, and, above all, a perfect courtier.”

In person, Triboulet was small and crooked; his head and ears were enormously large; his mouth proportionately wide; his nose must have been three times the size of that of Francis, who had otherwise the largest nose of any man in France: Rudolph of Hapsburg had not a larger. The fool’s eyes were protruding; his forehead was low and narrow. “His flat and hollow chest,” says Jacob, “his bowed back, his short and twisted legs, his long and hanging arms, amused the ladies, who contemplated him as if he had been a monkey or a paroquet.”

We find one of the uses to which these official fools were put at this court, in a remark touching the costume of Triboulet. “His dress was not less eccentric than his person. In accordance with his secret occupation of purveyor of pleasures to the King, he adopted the colours of the reigning mistress, and dressed in something of the fashion of his master. His justaucorps was of striped blue and white silk, fitting so tightly as to render his bodily deformity more conspicuous, and to excite more readily the laughter of all who looked upon him for the first time. On his back, thighs, and cap, were emblazoned the royal arms, and from his girdle of gilt leather hung the symbols of his office,—a club, a wooden sword, and a bagpipe. Another distinguishing mark of his office might be seen and heard in the little silver bells attached to his conical cap, his wand with a fool’s head at the end of it, and his long-toed red morocco slippers. He could not advance a step, nor turn his body ever so slightly, without setting these bells in motion, and thereby making a noise louder than that of ten mules in full trot. Triboulet was proud of functions which placed him near the King, and which he would not have exchanged for a ducal coronet or an episcopal mitre. He used to say of himself, that he was ‘the most noble in France, commencing from the lowest rank.... Keep duchies, countships, baronies, and marquisates to yourselves, Triboulet is sovereign lord of all at whom he mocks.’”

The Triboulet of Paul Lacroix is probably more like the original Triboulet than the half sentimental half savage hero of Victor Hugo’s play, ‘Le Roi s’amuse.’ In this piece, the “fou” is rendered malicious by a three-piled misery,—he is infirm, deformed, and an official court fool. He hates all his superiors because they are his superiors, and detests those beneath him,—detests men generally, in fact, because they are not hunchbacked, like himself. He excites rank against rank, and all against the King, and the King against all. He is the bad genius of Francis, whom he corrupts, and the scourge of the nobility, the dishonour of whose families he works through the King. He is Mephistophiles without superhuman power, for the lack of which he makes up by the intensity of his devilishness. Victor Hugo himself compares the buffoon and the King to a man holding a plaything and mortally wounding those among whom he capers with his toy. The buffoon is altogether without heart; yet not quite altogether, for there is one point on which he is as tender-hearted, as ever father could be who had an only daughter dearer to him far than his own life. Yet he has no heart for other sires whose love for their daughters is ardent, but who would rather see them coffined at their feet than crowned and dishonoured. So, when the Count de Saint-Vallier denounces Francis, in open court, for having brought disgrace upon his child, Diane de Poictiers, Triboulet the fool insults the outraged parent; and the old noble, robbed of his daughter, curses Triboulet the man. On this curse the whole piece turns, and from the time it is fulminated, there is little that ensues which is illustrative of the office and pleasantry of the buffoon, though all is highly dramatic, and Nemesis rules without restraint. The curse of the old Count smites Triboulet through his child, whom the King carries off, and whom the father slays by mistake for the royal seducer. The moral of the piece is defective, seeing that the buffoon, for a thoughtless trick of his office, is the only person most terribly punished. The King, who is the gay stage villain of the piece, escapes scot-free. It is like sending Leporello ad inferos, instead of Don Giovanni. If the Triboulet of Victor Hugo be full of brilliant inconsistencies and glittering contradictions, he is in many things what tradition represents him to have been. He flings smart sayings at marriage, laughs at the King’s pretensions to write verses, pushes or draws him into vice, and shoots a fool’s bolt at woman, by styling her, “a highly perfected devil.” His malice is illustrated by his delight at the opportunity offered him to cruelly rally the husbands whom his highly perfected devils outrage and betray. His humour is to comment and criticize, while others, and especially the King, enjoy life after their fashion. Between his own condition and that of the master whom he serves, he draws a distinction of which he might reasonably have been the author, saying to Francis

That Victor Hugo was careful of representing Triboulet in his vocation of buffoon, according to the way in which the contemporaries of the “fou” had spoken of him, may be seen in the speech of M. de Pienne to Marot, who is, and was, fool in all things but the title, with enough of that wit which our own national poet alluded to as requisite for a man who aspired to play the character becomingly. De Pienne says to Marot:—

It is probable, therefore, that we find other reflections of the buffoon’s actual character and his bearing towards Francis, in the best passages connected with him and his vocation. Triboulet certainly exhibits a turn of his profession when, after drinking with the monarch, he boasts of possessing two advantages over him, that of not being drunk, and that of not being King. The well-known freedom which he invariably took with Francis, is not less pleasantly illustrated by his satire against scholars, when the King’s sister Margaret counselled him to surround himself with wise men, since he lacked the love of ladies.

“C’est bien mal,” says the buffoon,—

And again, we have a fact put in rhyme, though it be told of other buffoons, in the passage where Francis, pointing to three courtiers, tells Triboulet that they are employed in making sport of him. “Not of me,” says Triboulet, “but of another fool.” “And who is he?” asks Francis. “The King,” briefly and drily replies the buffoon, who especially hated the courtiers, who as heartily hated the King’s jester. Francis, still remarking on the three, observes discontentedly, “I have made one an admiral, one a grand constable, and of the third, controller of my household. What more could I do for them?” “Well,” returns Triboulet, “there is one thing more you might very justly do for them;—you might hang them!” It may be added, that the plaisant did not at all fear those whom he exasperated by the exercise of his wit; and his feeling in this respect is well illustrated by his remark to one of the illustrious gentlemen whom he had offended, and by whom he was thrashed:—

Triboulet, after his death, was not honoured, like Thevenin de Saint-Légier, with a magnificent tomb and a superscribed epitaph. Nevertheless, he did not lack a poet who at least penned an epitaph which is in very tolerable Latin, and has fool’s wit in its closing turn. It is by Jean Bouté, was printed in 1538, and is to this effect:—

Among the frequenters of the court of Francis we occasionally meet with personages who had too much wit to be official fous, but whose humour was sometimes exercised like theirs, but without license. Their wit was enjoyed, but it was exercised at their risk and peril. Marot was one of those; and many are the stories of him that are little worth relating. Of the best of them, there is one which tells of his feigned simplicity, when he saw the French Ambassador at Rome kiss the Pope’s foot. “Merciful powers!” cried Marot, “if the representative of the King of France kisses his Holiness’s foot, what may a poor fellow like me be called upon to salute!” Marot, too, is the author of a smart saying that has been turned and re-turned in many a handbook of wit since his time. He was walking with a very fine court personage, who hated wits and poets, and who remarked to Marot, who was to the right of him, “I cannot bear, Marot, to have a fool on my right-hand.” “Can you not?” said the wit, slipping round to the left, “I can bear it very well!” This wit satirized with his pen the hypocritical priests as stingingly as Triboulet did with his tongue the nobles whom he hated; and he was, consequently, once menaced with the vengeance of a bishop on whom he had been particularly severe. “Oh!” remarked Marot, “I am in no anxiety, I know a place where I can easily escape the research of the bishop. I will go and sit in his library.”

It is true, that though the especial duty of the fou was to laugh and make laugh, and that he possessed not the privilege of weeping if choice or calamity urged him thereto, he had license of speech, and sometimes used it for the admonition as well as amusement of his master. In this respect, the plaisant often became a political personage or agent of considerable importance; and an instance of this is recounted of Briandas, who was one of the official fools of Francis I., after the death of Triboulet, about the year 1538.

Francis had so neglected his wife, the gentle, pious, but grandeur-loving Claude, that their eldest son had little love for his sire; and the Dauphin, subsequently Henry II., was upon such terms with his father as the Princes of Wales were, under our Georges. They had their separate households, courts, and factions, and the feuds between the two were constant and bitter. It is worth remarking that Briandas, who was attached to the King’s person, as “Bouffon de Cour,” had free access to the Prince’s presence at all times. On one of these occasions, he was present when the Dauphin and a few personal friends were discussing their future prospects and chances of fortune. The discussion took the turn of an appeal to the heir-apparent, as to the distribution of wealth and honours, when the reigning King, Francis, should be in his grave. The Dauphin did not seem to think that the matter was in any way delicate or difficult. He felt a joy in the mere fancy of being King, and joyously notified how he would deprive certain noblemen of the court of his father of their offices, and confer them on his followers present. The prince proceeded to sportively appoint various laughing applicants to divers posts coveted by them. All found themselves thus provided for, save one—the old Marshal Vielleville,—who had remained silent. Now there was another individual in the room, silent also; and he had not escaped the Marshal’s observation. This was Briandas, the fool. The Marshal, in his honesty or great discretion, would not take part in the proceedings, the little decorum of which may have shocked an old-world courtier, and he remained taciturn, as if he disapproved of the entire comedy. The fou too was silent; but he was thoughtful also. No one, however, suspected him of having attended to what had been going forward, or of his holding long in memory the serious joking of which he had been a witness. The buffoon, however, was not the man they took him for. He that night entered the apartment where Francis sat surrounded by his friends, and approaching his master with solemn gait, addressed him as solemnly of speech, with, “God greet you, Francis of Valois, for from what I have seen and heard this evening, you are King no longer!” He did not pause here, but turning to the various great officers of the crown, he announced to each that he was deprived of his dignity, to which a successor had been appointed. “God’s death!” he finally exclaimed, turning sharp round upon the King, “as for you, the grand constable will soon be upon you, rod in hand, to whip you for your follies.”

It would be difficult to say whether the wrath or the curiosity of the King was greater. He had his misgivings, too, as to indulging in either, for this might only be a fool’s jest after all. His curiosity however had the mastery, and Briandas, in presence of Francis, the Cardinal of Lorraine, and the Duchess d’Estampes, was so closely questioned and cross-questioned, as to induce us to believe that the querists were more justified in trusting to his intelligence than the Dauphin and his friends had been in depending on his simplicity or imbecility. The buffoon succinctly revealed everything, named all the persons who had leaped into high saddles before their time, but made especial exception of Vielleville, as having neither applied for a post nor had one conferred on him by the foolish King in posse.

The royal curiosity satisfied, wrath took its place; and at the head of a body of Scottish and Swiss guards, Francis hastened, with the “fou,” to arrest his own too hasty son and his adherents. These, however, had been timely forewarned, and had hurriedly decamped. There were no persons left in the Dauphin’s chamber, except a few pages and servants, on whom Francis let his wrath fall, and ordered them to be soundly horsewhipped. They doubtless deserved it for something or another, so that it was not altogether thrown away. The King acted less justifiably, even in the eyes of the buffoon, when he proceeded with his own hand to destroy the furniture in the Dauphin’s chamber, and to slash the tapestry with his sword.

Months elapsed before the King and his son became partially reconciled, through the intervention of mutual friends. As for the Dauphin’s followers, they were all punished by various measures of disgrace and severity, excepting Vielleville, who had marked the presence of Francis’s fool, and in that presence had been too wise or honest to offend Francis’s self-love. And thus things remained till the death of Francis and the accession of Henry. Then the long-before discussed probabilities, and the lavish promises, became realities. Francis’s friends were swept from their high estate, and the trusty or eager followers of Henry appointed in their place. Never was the tune of ‘Up go we’ so admirably played out as on this occasion by the husband of Catherine de Medicis and his partisans. There were however two personages who did not join in the chorus, namely, the wise or discreet Marshal Vielleville and the loquacious but trusty fool, Briandas. The former was passed over for being too silent, and the latter suffered stripes and imprisonment for being too talkative.

Neither of these lost much by not serving Henry II. (especially as regards Briandas), for that King and his actual fool could never agree. The great man could not bear the license of the little one, and the latter could so indifferently endure the exasperating humour of his master, that he one day drew his sword upon the King. It could only have been his wooden sword, for fools could carry no other on their thigh; but Henry took the act of poor Capuchio as an act of treason, and the buffoon is said to have paid for it with his life.

Henry had far more regard for the fool Thony, whom he raised to the rank of patented buffoon, after the death of the jester’s late master, the Duke of Orleans. The Duke had taken him, at an early age, from his mother, at Coucy in Picardy. Thony had three brothers, all of whom were actually out of their wits, and the pious woman desired to see Thony in priest’s orders, that he might pray for his witless brethren. “Leave him to me,” said the Duke, “I will look to it.” Therewith his highness carried him off; and as the aforesaid brothers had received appointments as house-fools in illustrious but private families, the Duke made a fool of Thony. He was a coarse, rough fellow at first, but the society of pages and courtiers improved him. By constant friction with such materials, he became remarkably polished and jocose. The constable Anne de Montmorency had an especial regard for Thony. He invited him to his own table, where the “fou” was served like a King, and where his chief joke seems to have been in complaining of the inattention of the pages and lackeys; and his chief enjoyment in seeing them smartly scourged in his presence for their neglect, real or alleged. The constable called him the most subtle courtier of a fool that he had ever seen. Thony exhibited his subtlety by naming the constable familiarly, his “Papa;” but this was only as long as that great officer was in favour with the King. When the royal favour had departed, Thony no longer looked with an eye of affection on him. Only the King’s friends were his friends, so that, in one respect, the fool was like any ordinary man.

Indeed, some of the ordinary men were brighter wits than the fools. After the demise of Francis I. we meet with a personage who, without being a jester by vocation, probably caused more mirth and laughter at the court of Henry II. than was ever raised there by courtier or court fool. The name of this personage was Mendoza, and the first subject for his wit he found in a solemn circumstance. Henry celebrated the obsequies of his predecessor in magnificent style. The priest who pronounced the funeral oration maintained that King Francis had been of so holy a life, that his soul had gone to Paradise without passing through Purgatory. The denial of Purgatory was a favourite tenet of the Reformers. The Sorbonne accused the preacher of heresy, and sent a deputation to St. Germain, to make known their complaint to the King. Mendoza, then a chief officer of the court, first received it, and, by a facetious speech, saved Henry from an act of injustice. “Calm yourselves, gentlemen,” said he to the deputies of the Sorbonne; “if you had known the good King Francis as well as I did, you would have better understood the words of the preacher. Francis was not a man to tarry long anywhere; and if he did take a turn in Purgatory, believe me, the devil himself could not persuade him to make anything like a sojourn.” What could the deputation do, save laugh themselves into good humour at the wit of this court official?

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.