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:—
“Be assured, my good seigneurs, that Triboulet’s far
From dreading the nobles ’gainst whom he makes war.
Dread! I dread nothing; my heart’s calm and cool;
For I’ve nothing to risk but the head of a fool.”
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:—
“Vixi Morio, Regibus qui gratus
Solo hoc nomine; viso num futurus
Regum Morio sim Jovi Supremo.”
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.