LOUIS XIV. ROI DE FRANCE.
All of which sank deep into their souls.
“It’s an old French coin,” said Bruce at length. “Where did you get it? Did you find it yourself?”
Captain Corbet made no reply, but only held up his mineral rod, and solemnly tapped it.
“Did you find it with that?” asked Bart.
The captain nodded with mysterious and impressive emphasis.
“Where?”
“Mind, now, it’s a secret.”
“Of course.”
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet slowly, “it’s a very serous ondertakin; an ef it wan’t for the babby, an me hopin to leave him a fortin, I wouldn’t be consarned in it. Any how, you see, as I was tell-in, I ben sarchin; an not long before we sailed I was out one day with the mineral rod, an it pinted—it pinted—it did—in one spot. It’s an ole French cellar. Thar’s a pot of gold buried thar, boys—that I know. The mineral rod turned down hard.”
“And did you dig there?” asked Bart, anxiously. “Did you try it?”
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“I hadn’t a shovel. Besides, I was afeard I might be seen. Then, agin, I wanted help.”
“But didn’t you find this coin there?”
Captain Corbet again shook his head.
“No,” said he. “I found that thar kine in another cellar; but in that cellar the rod didn’t railly pint. So I didn’t dig. I went on a sarchin till I found one whar it did pint. It shows how things air. Thar’s money—thar’s other kines a buried in the ground. Now I tell you what. Let’s be pardners, an go an dig up that thar pot of gold. ’Tain’t at all in my line. ’Tain’t everybody that I’d tell. But you’ve got my confidence; an I trust on you. Besides, you’ve got luck. No,” continued the captain in a dreamy and somewhat mournful tone, “’tain’t in my line for me, at my age to go huntin arter buried treasure; but then that babby! Every look, every cry, every crow, that’s given by that bee-lessed offsprin, tetches my heart’s core; an I pine to be a de win somethin for him—to smooth the way for his infant feet, when poor old Corbet’s gone. For I can’t last long. Yes—yes—I must do it for the babby.”
Every word that Captain Corbet uttered, except, perhaps, his remarks about the “babby,” only added to the kindling excitement of the boys. A mineral rod! a buried treasure! What could be more overpowering than such a thought! In an instant the camp in the woods seemed to lose all its attractions in their eyes. To play at camping out—to humor the pretence of being bandits—was nothing, compared with the glorious reality of actually digging in the ground, under the guidance of a real mineral rod, for a buried pot of gold; yet it ought to be explained, that, to these boys, it was not so much the value of any possible treasure that might be buried and exhumed which excited them, as the idea of the enterprise itself—an enterprise which was so full of all the elements of romantic yet mysterious adventure. How tremendous was the secret which had thus been intrusted to them! How impressive was the sight of that mineral rod! How overpowering was the thought of a pot of gold, buried long ago by some fugitive Frenchman! How convincing was the sight of that copper coin! And, finally, how very appropriate was such an enterprise as this to their own secret society of the “B. O. W. C.”! It was an enterprise full of solemnity and mystery; beset with unknown peril; surrounded with secrecy and awe; a deed to be attempted in darkness and in silence; an undertaking which would supply the “B. O. W. C.” with that for which they had pined so long—a purpose.
“But is there any money buried?” asked Phil.
“Money buried?” said Bart. “Of course, and lots of it. When the French Acadians were banished, they couldn’t take their money away. They must have left behind all that they had. And they had lots of it. Haven’t you read all about ‘Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pré? Of course you have. Well, if he was the wealthiest, others were wealthy. That stands to reason. And if so, what did they do with their wealth? Where did they keep their money? They hadn’t any banks. They couldn’t buy stock, and all that sort of thing. What did they do with it, then? What? Why, they buried it, of course. That’s the way all half-civilized people manage. That’s what the Hindoos do, and the Persians, and the Chinese. People call it ‘hoarding.’ They say there’s enough gold and silver buried in the earth in India and China to pay olf the national debt; and I believe there’s enough money buried about here by the old Acadians to buy up all the farms of Grand Pré.”
Bart spoke earnestly, and in a tone of deep conviction which was shared by all the others. The copper coin and the mineral rod had done their work. They lost all taste for the camp, and its pool, and its overarching trees, and its seclusion, and were now eager to be off with Captain Corbet. Before this new enterprise even the greatest of their recent adventures dwindled into insignificance. Captain Corbet, with his magic wand, stood before them, inviting them to greater and grander exploits.
A long conversation followed, and Captain Corbet began to think that the pot of gold was already invested. The boys took his mineral rod, which he did not give up until he had been for a long time coaxed and entreated they passed it from hand to hand; each one closely inspected it, and balanced it on his finger so as to test the mode in which it worked; each one asked him innumerable questions about it, and gave it a long and solemn trial.
“But where is the place?” asked Bart. “Is it very far from here?”
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“’Tain’t very far off,” said he. “I’ll show you.”
“Which way?” asked Tom.
The captain waved his rod in the direction of the Academy.
“What! That way?” asked Bart. “Are the cellars there?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mean those. What! Just behind the Academy?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the ‘Old French Orchard,’ then,” cried Bart—“the ‘Old French Orchard.’ The only cellars in that direction are under the old French apple trees, on the top of the hill. Is that the place you mean, captain?”
“That’s the indentical individool spot,” said Captain Corbet.
“The ‘Old French Orchard’!” exclaimed the other boys in surprise; for they had expected to be taken to some more remote and very different place.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “that thar place’s a very pecooliar place. You see thar’s a lot o’ cellars jest thar, an then the ole apple trees—they’re somethin. The ole Frenchman, that lived up thar, must hev ben rich.”
“The fact is,” exclaimed Bart, “Captain Corbet’s right. The Frenchman that lived on that place must have been rich. For my part, I believe that he was no other than ‘Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer in Grand Pré.’ He buried all his money there, no doubt. This is one of his French sous. Come along, boys; we’ll find that pot of gold.”
And with these words they all set out along with Captain Corbet for the “Old French Orchard.”