him _Henriquet_, and greedily devour the dainties presented to his master. At the council-board too Chicot was often present, where his wit worked as profitably as that of any grave-looking member present; albeit, while he enunciated his profound political maxims, he was perhaps engaged in making paper boats, and arranging them into a fleet. On the most serious occasions, a sally from Chicot at the head of the table, would cause the King to laugh. Solemn statesmen would then look grave, and while the royal laughter was yet pealing, Chicot would utter a stentorian “_Silence there!_” which would cause the King to suddenly close his mouth, and the councillors to open theirs, moved, in spite of themselves, to lively hilarity. By way of sample of what was then probably considered a rather neat joke, and showing how Henri profited by being constantly in company with Chicot, I may cite the traditionary incident of the monk preaching from the back of an ass. “Which is the preacher?” said the King, “for they both speak at the same time.” “The one beneath is the most eloquent,” replied Chicot, “but the uppermost one speaks the best French.” The power wielded by this influential buffoon is also indicated by M. Dumas, in the observation made by the former when he learns a most important State secret which he resolves to keep to himself. “Why should I communicate it to any one else?” said he, “Is it not I who am King of France?” He had mimicked his master so often, that he almost thought himself king;--like Elliston when, in tipsy majesty, he represented George IV. at the Drury Lane coronation, and hiccupped benedictions on the heads of his laughing subjects in the pit. With Chicot, however, the case was less imaginary; for when Henri was about to take a fatal step, a sign from the jester would set him right, and the gentleman buffoon might then have been justified in exclaiming, “Did I not say rightly, that _I_ was the real King in France?” We may fancy him, on his long legs, saying this, and by raising himself, looking longer than ever. Here is not quite an imaginary picture of the wisdom of the “_fou_,” as he looks over a chess-board at which he is sitting alone, meditating the while on the dangers threatening Henri III. To one who questions him, he replies, “I am disquieted about the King. At chess, you see, the King is but an insignificant personage. He has no will of his own; can only move one step forward or back; one step to the right or to the left, while he is surrounded by foes on the alert; by knights who jump three squares at a time; by a mob of pawns, who close round him; and if he be only ill-advised, he is a lost and ruined king in no time.”