A slow color crept into Nannichette's brown cheek. "Dere is gole dere," she said, obstinately. "De speerit tell me where to look."
"That was Satan who spoke to you, Nannichette," said Claudine, seriously; "or maybe you had had a little rum. Come now, hadn't you?"
Nannichette scowled, while Mirabelle Marie murmured, with reverent admiration, "I dessay the divil knows where there is lots of gold."
"It drives me frantic to hear you discuss this subject," said Bidiane, suddenly springing to her feet. "Oh, if you knew how ignorant it sounds, how way back in the olden times! What would the people in Paris say if they could hear you? Oh, please, let us talk of something else; let us mention art."
"What's dat?" asked Nannichette, pricking up her ears.
"It is all about music, and writing poetry, and making lovely pictures, and all kinds of elegant things,—it elevates your mind and soul. Don't talk about hateful things. What do you want to live back in the woods for? Why don't you come out to the shore?"
"Dat's why I wan' de gole," said Nannichette, triumphantly. "Of'en I use to hunt for some of Cap'en Kidd's pots."
"Good gracious!" said Bidiane, with an impatient gesture, "how much money do you suppose that man had? They are searching for his treasure all along the coast. I don't believe he ever had a bit. He was a wicked old pirate,—I wouldn't spend his money if I found it—"
Mirabelle Marie and Nannichette surveyed each other's faces with cunning, glittering eyes. There was a secret understanding between them; no speech was necessary, and they contemplated Bidiane as two benevolent wild beasts might survey an innocent and highly cultured lamb who attempted to reason with them.