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.