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Updated: June 27, 2025
But its patrons seemed to like the place well enough in spite of its miasma, and Master Robin Turgis, the fat landlord, drowsy with his own wine and dripping from the heat, surveyed them complacently, and wallowed as it were in the rattle and clink of mug and can, the full-throated laughter and the shrill chatter, crisply emphasized by oaths, which assured him of the Fircone's popularity with its intimates.
Father du Marché was forced to leave the island, and finally Father Turgis succumbed to the disease, and left behind him a single man, who was in a dying condition. In the year 1637, two other Jesuits came to this inhospitable island, Father Jacques de la Place and Father Nicholas Gondoin. They found only nine persons there, who were in charge of the storehouse.
Louis made no answer and was mournfully silent until the obese landlord returned with the much-vaunted vintage, which he set down on the table with a brace of goblets. Louis fumbled with reluctant fingers in his pouch, extracted the exact amount necessary for payment and dropped it into the fat paw of Robin Turgis.
If our friend is inquisitive at least he has paid his fee," and as he spoke he hid his face for a moment behind the huge mug of Beaune wine which Robin Turgis at that moment handed to him. Much refreshed by his mighty draught he resumed briskly: "For three and thirty years I have taken toll of life with such result as you see.
He looked at the solemn pages who stood about him with golden cups and golden flagons in their hands, and he tried to remember how he had escaped from the society of Master Robin Turgis into this gilded environment. His head ached with the endeavour and he abandoned it.
The sound of military music and the tramp of marching men could be heard approaching louder and louder. Five girls had forced their way to the very front row of the throne and were applauding and shouting with the rest. These were the light ladies of the Fircone, Isabeau, Jehanneton, Denise, and Blanche with Guillemette, fat Robin Turgis' fat daughter.
Robin Turgis, shutting the door after her with a sigh of satisfaction, retired to his own quarters to seek sleep until custom should return. Louie and Tristan, deep in their cards, paid little heed to anything else. "Your barber tarries," Tristan said, after a panse. "The game makes amends," Louis answered. "You are winning, sire," Tristan grunted. The king chirruped merrily.
Master Robin, come hither." Robin Turgis, who had kept apart up to now, surveying the new-comer with no excess of favour, moved slowly forward with his thumbs in his girdle and a sour smile on his fat cheeks. Master François addressed him sternly, twitching as he did so the landlord's greasy cap from his pate and sending it flying down the room.
Robin Turgis raised his hands in a comical despair as he muttered: "Here is the devil out of hell again." All the men and women were looking eagerly at the door. "Who is this?" asked Louis of Tristan, "whose coming seems so to flutter these night-birds?" "The strangest knave in all Paris," Tristan answered.
"Or in some of the secret passages or cells contrived in the thickness of the walls," rejoined the first speaker. "I say, Ned Turgis, if the plague increases, as there is every likelihood it will, Solomon Eagle will be the only preacher left in Saint Paul's. Neither deans, prebends, minor-canons, nor vicars will attend. As it is, they have almost abandoned it."
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