Chapter 4 Chapter Four

There is an aversion to any social scheme that prevails in Provence.Locals tend to show up at the door unexpectedly, catching you off guard, without first calling to see if you're free. Napoleon gold coins in the garden (1) At one end of my swimming pool is a long pile of memorabilia left by construction workers repairing the house—broken stones, old power switches, empty beer cans, broken tiles, you name it.We always hoped that one day Didier and Claude would come with an empty truck and remove the debris.The field will be beautiful when it is cleared, and then we can plant rows of roses as originally planned.

But the truck was never empty, either because Claude's toe was injured, or Didier was busy disposing of debris in the Alps, so the pile of memorabilia remained by the pool.Soon after, this pile of things began to show more and more "color", standing in the garden looked like a rockery, covered with a layer of green weeds from head to toe, dotted with blooming poppies everywhere.I told my wife that although the scenery was beyond our expectations, it was also quite beautiful.But she didn't think so. "Most people would think that roses are more attractive than rubble and beer cans." So I started to clean up the pile.

To be honest, I quite like the rhythm of manual labor, and I also enjoy the satisfaction of watching a pile of messy waste gradually become orderly.After a few weeks, I finally finished clearing the ground and walked away with my hands full of blisters.My wife was very happy, she said, "Now we just need to dig two deep trenches, prepare 50 kilograms of fertilizer, and then we can plant roses." She began to look through the rose catalog, while I went to bandage the blisters on my hands , and bought a new pickaxe. I dug about 3 yards down from the hard ground when suddenly there was a flash of something old but bright yellow among the grass roots.Some old farmer must have dropped the bottle cap here one hot afternoon many years ago after drinking anisette.I peeled off the soil covering it, my dear, it's not a bottle cap, it's a coin!I took it under the tap and rinsed it, and it gleamed gold in the sun, dripping down the bearded figure on the gold coin.

This 1857 20-franc coin features a goatee-bearded Napoleon III on one side, with his title engraved malevolently next to his name: Emperor.On the other side was a laurel wreath, crowned with the inscription "Emperor of France," and on the edge of the coin was a phrase every Frenchman knew and believed in: God bless France. My wife is as excited as I am."There may be more, keep digging," she said. Ten minutes later, I found a second gold piece, another twenty-franc piece, dated 1869.Time seemed to leave no mark on Napoleon's head, save a garland of flowers growing on his head.I stood in the hole I dug and roughly calculated, and I can dig about 20 yards down. Judging from the current speed of one gold coin per yard, we will dig a bag full of Napoleon gold coins, maybe Enough for lunch at Beaumaniere in Les Baux.I continued to swing the pickaxe, digging deeper and deeper until the skin on my hands began to peel. Through the sweat, I carefully searched for every trace of light from "Napoleon".

At the end of the day, I wasn't richer, just a hole deep enough to plant a big tree.But I believe that tomorrow will be able to dig more treasures.No one would pitifully bury just two coins, they must have fallen out of a bag full, and this windfall fortune for the hardworking gardener must be around. To assess the size of this fortune, we asked the experts at the money section of the Journal de Provence.In a country where people are used to exchanging their belongings for gold and stashing them under their mattresses, there must be a conversion table for the value of gold.The result is that between the No. 1 gold ingot and the Mexican 50 peso, the 20 franc Napoleon gold coin is now worth 396 francs, even more if the head of the person on the coin is intact.

Nobody had ever dug so hard, and it caught Faustain's attention.On the way to the vineyard to remove the mold, he stopped and asked me what I was doing.I say grow roses. "Really? Such a big hole, it must be a big rose? If it's not a rose tree? From England? It's hard to grow roses here, black spot is everywhere." He shook his head, and it was obvious that he was going to advise me that it was better to be pessimistic.Foster has been through various natural disasters, and is more than willing to share his vast knowledge of the subject with those who are foolish enough to hope for the future.To make him happy, I told him about the gold coins.

He crouched by the side of the ditch, pulling back his blue-spotted hat, stained with mildew repellent, to listen more closely. "Under normal circumstances, where one or two gold coins are found, it often means that there are other gold coins, but this is not a good place to hide things." He waved his big brown palm and pointed in the direction of the house, "Where is the well?" Should be safer, or behind the chimney." I said they might have buried them casually in a hurry, Faustain shook his head again, I understand that "haste" is not an idea he can accept, especially when it comes to things like hiding gold. "A farmer would never panic like that, at least not with Napoleon gold coins. These money are just bad luck and accidentally dropped here."

I said that it was good luck for me, but I hoped that he would go back to the vineyard to solve the problems in the garden. As the days passed, the blisters on my hands became more and more, the trenches were dug deeper and longer, but the number of gold coins remained at two.It doesn't make sense at all, no farmer goes to work in the field with gold coins in his pocket, the treasure must be nearby, not far from where I stand. I decided to ask the expert who thought he knew all the secrets of Provence-the smart, greedy and cunning Marceau.If anyone in the world could find out where a crafty old farmer hid his gold just by smelling the wind and spitting on the ground, it would be Marceau.

I walked through the forest to his house, and his dog sniffed me and barked low.I know someday they'll break free and bite every creature in the valley, and I hope Marceau sells the house before that happens. Marceau walks slowly through what he likes to call the front garden, which is actually bare, dog droppings, and overgrown weeds.He squinted at me through the sunlight and the rising smoke from his cigar. "Come here for a walk?" "No!" I said that today I came to ask for his advice.He grunted and kicked the dogs to silence them.We stood on either side of the rusted chain between his house and the avenue, and he smelled unmistakably of garlic and black tobacco.I told him about the two gold coins, and he took the cigarette from his lower lip to examine the wet butt, while his dog walked around, jingling the chains on his legs, and let out a choked low growl.

He finally found a place to put his cigarettes at the end of his grimy beard and approached me. "Who else did you tell?" He looked over my shoulder, as if to make sure it was just the two of us. "My wife, and Faustin, just the two of them." "Don't tell anyone," he said, touching his nose with a grimy finger, "there may be more gold coins in there, and only you and I know about it." We walked back along the path so Marceau could see where I found the gold coin.He told me why the whole country is so crazy about gold: politicians are the ones who started it, since the beginning of the revolution, there have been emperors, wars, countless presidents, and the devaluation that can turn 100 francs into 100 centimes overnight.Presidents are mostly idiots who only know how to fight for power, no wonder even simple-minded farmers don't trust the paper money printed by those bastards in Paris, only gold.Marceau puts his hands in front of him, and with his fingers, he traces the shape of an imaginary pile of Napoleonic gold coins.Gold is always the best to use, especially in times of war.And the most valuable gold is the gold of the dead, because the dead will not compete with you. "We are so lucky to have such a thing!" It seems that I have an extra partner!

We stood in the ditch, Marceau twirling his beard and looking around.The ground is very flat, some places are planted with lavender, some places are covered with turf, and there is no place where gold can be hidden.But Marceau thinks it's a good sign, and if it had been obvious, it would have been found 50 years ago, and "our" gold would certainly be gone.He climbed up, paced the distance to the well, and sat down on the stone wall. "Anywhere is possible," he said, pointing to a 50-yard radius. "This is a large area, you can't dig it all by yourself." Our partnership obviously does not include the part of equal labor. "We need a metal detector." He swept his hands across the turf like a metal detector, making a clicking sound. "That's it, I will definitely find it." "How? What should I do with this?" Marceau rubbed his thumb with his index finger. The whole world knew that this gesture referred to money.Now is the time to talk business. Napoleon Coins in the Garden (2) We made a deal that I would do the trench digging and Marceau would hire the high-tech metal detectors.In the end, only the share ratio of the partners has not yet been decided.I think 10% is reasonable for a metal detector that requires no effort at all.But Marceau thinks 50% is more appropriate, he has to drive to Cavaillon (Cavaillon) to get the machine first, he has to participate in the excavation work after detecting the gold, and the most important thing is to have such a completely trustworthy partner , will never go around preaching our new wealth, I should feel confident."Everything must be kept under wraps," Marceau said. I watched him smile and nod at me, thinking that it would be difficult to find a more disturbing old villain on the other side of the prison bars in Marseilles. "20%!" I said.He backed down, said with a sigh that I was a cheapskate, and we settled for 25%.We shook hands, and before he left, he patted the ditch for good luck. A few days later, I saw him again.I dug the trench, added manure, and ordered some roses, and the man who delivered them said I had dug too deep, and asked me why, but I didn't say a word. ＊＊＊ There is an aversion to any social scheme that prevails in Provence.Locals tend to show up at the door unexpectedly, catching you off guard, without first calling to see if you're free.When he arrives, he always thinks that you should have time to have a drink with him and chat with you in circles for a long time before explaining the purpose of his visit.If you say that you have to go out for something, he will be puzzled, why are you in such a hurry?It's only half an hour, but it's normal to be late! At dusk that day, we heard the sound of a pickup truck parked in front of the house and hurried out.We were going to dinner at some of Goult's friends' houses, so decided to send the visitor away before he settled down at the bar and took root. I saw the back door of the pickup truck was open, and there was the sound of things bumping inside. There was a "bang" as if something fell to the floor, followed by a "fuck!" It turned out to be my partner, busy wrestling with a pickaxe stuck in the grill, his The dog stayed behind in the driver's seat.Finally, with an earth-shattering shock, the pickaxe was pulled out, and Marceau fell out of the back door, a little faster than he expected. He was wearing camouflage pants, a brown sweater, and a grass-green military cap on his head. From head to toe, he was covered with outdated old equipment. Marceau looked like a poorly paid mercenary.He unloaded the tools from the truck and set them on the ground—a pickaxe, a plasterer's long-handled shovel, something wrapped in a ragged bag.Marceau looked around to see if anyone was there, then removed the bag to reveal a metal detector. "Look, this is the most advanced one. It can reach a depth of three meters underground." He activated the switch, waving it over his tool.The guy had no trouble detecting the shovel or pickaxe, rattling and shaking like a set of irritated dentures.Marceau is very satisfied. "Did you see it? It will make a sound as soon as it detects metal, which is much better than hard digging!" I said it was indeed miraculous, and I would keep it locked up in my room until tomorrow morning. "Tomorrow?" Marceau asked, "but we have to start now!" I said that in another half an hour, it would be dark.Marceau nodded patiently, as if I had finally understood a very complicated theory. "That's right!" He put down the detector and grabbed my arm. "We don't want to be seen, right? This kind of thing is best done at night, so it won't attract attention. Go, get the tools!" I said that there are still some difficulties, and my wife and I are preparing to go out. Marceau stopped talking, stared straight at me, raised his eyebrows to the highest point, and looked shocked. "Out? Tonight? Now?" My wife called me from the house, "We're already late." Marceau shrugged his shoulders, dismissing our strange sense of time, but he insisted on doing it tonight, said sadly that he had to do it alone, and asked if I could Lend him your flashlight.I showed him how to turn on the light behind the well, and he angled it so that it illuminated the area by the rose beds, muttering angrily that we shouldn't have left him alone. As we pulled out of the driveway, we looked back at Marceau, his elongated figure swaying among the brightly lit trees.The ticking of the metal detectors could be heard clearly in the night sky, and I began to worry about the secrecy of our partnership, feeling as if a large sign had been erected in our driveway that read, "Nowhere Three hundred taels of silver." Over dinner, we told friends about the treasure hunt that was going on in the dark.The Luberon native is not optimistic about this.He told us that when metal detectors first became popular, beagle dogs were more popular with farmers.Although someone has indeed found gold, but now this area has been thoroughly searched, and Marceau is lucky to find an old horseshoe! Even so, he could not deny the existence of the two gold Napoleons we found.Two gold coins were on the table in front of him, and he picked them up and clinked them in his hands.Who knows?Maybe our luck will be good, maybe Marceau's luck will be better, and we will never see him again!Is this guy trustworthy?My wife and I looked at each other and decided to go home immediately. By the time we got home just after midnight, Marceau's pickup truck was gone.The lights were off, too, but the moon was bright enough for us to see a huge heap of earth and rock, piled up in a mess where we were going to lay the sod.We decided to clean up the site tomorrow morning. It was like a large, claustrophobic woodchuck burrowing into the ground for air and spitting metal.There are several iron nails, several pieces of wheel fragments, an old screwdriver, half a sickle, a large dungeon key, a copper rifle shell, countless screws, bottle caps, hoe fragments, blades, and a colander base. , a bird's nest made of electric wires, and some unknown rusty things.Only there is no gold. Most of the freshly planted roses survived and the lavender beds were intact.Marceau was probably exhausted. I decided to let him sleep until noon, and then I went to ask him about it.Before I got to his house, I heard the sound of a metal detector from a distance.I yelled twice before he raised his head from the thorny hill he was probing.He bared his hideous teeth in welcome.I was surprised to see him so happy, maybe he really found something. "Hello!" He slung his metal detector over his shoulder like a gun, trudged through the bushes, grinning as he walked towards me, and I said he looked like he was lucky. "Not yet!" he said.My neighbor had to stop work last night due to loud complaints about the noise.I don't understand, what on earth did he do to wake the neighbors up at least two hundred and fifty yards from where Marceau was hunting? "It's not me, it's it," he said, pointing to the metal detector. "Everywhere I go, it always detects something, da da da da da da da da da." "But not gold!" I said. Marceau came over suddenly, and for that terrible moment, I almost thought he was going to kiss me.He twitched his nose and said in a low voice, "I know where the gold is." He leaned back and took a deep breath, "Really, I know where it is." Even though we were standing in the forest, with absolutely no human habitation for at least a kilometer, Marceau's fear of being heard infected me, and I found myself whispering too. "Where is it?" "At the end of the pool." "Under the rose?" "Under the flagstone." "Under the flagstone?" "Really, I'm sure, on my grandmother's head." Marceau must have thought this was definitely good news, but it wasn't.The flagstones around the pool are almost 3 inches thick and they are laid over reinforced cement as thick as the flagstones.Just hitting the ground is a devastating project.Marceau realized what I was thinking and lowered the detector so he could use his hands to reinforce the tone. “In Cavillon you can rent electric rock drills like those used by quarrymen, and they can cut through anything,” he said. He was right. A miniature rock drill can punch through flagstones, reinforced concrete layers, swimming pool inlet pipes, and cables for filter motors in a second.Just a pop, maybe a pop, and when the dust settles, we can easily find that we only have one more scythe blade in our collection!I said, "No! I'm so sorry, but it just doesn't work." Marceau accepted my decision, and I brought him a bottle of anisette to make up for the trouble I had caused him, which he gladly accepted.But then I used to see him standing on the path behind my house, looking at the pool, stroking his beard thoughtfully.God knows what he'd do if he got drunk one night and someone happened to give him a jackhammer for Christmas!