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!”