---
type: article
status: Published
slug: "ingenu"
title: "L’Ingénu, histoire véritable tirée des manuscrits du P. Quesnel"
author: "Voltaire"
tradition: "european"
language: "fr"
genre: "philosophical tale"
period: "1767"
source_url: "https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4651"
certainty: observed
source: "https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4651"
---
# L’Ingénu, histoire véritable tirée des manuscrits du P. Quesnel

## Original

### Chapter I

Comment le prieur de Notre-Dame de la Montagne et mademoiselle sa soeur
rencontrèrent un Huron.

Un jour saint Dunstan, Irlandais de nation et saint de profession,
partit d’Irlande sur une petite montagne qui vogua vers les côtes de
France, et arriva par cette voiture à la baie de Saint-Malo. Quand il
fut à bord, il donna la bénédiction à sa montagne, qui lui fit de
profondes révérences, et s’en retourna en Irlande par le même chemin
qu’elle était venue.

Dunstan fonda un petit prieuré dans ces quartiers-là, et lui donna le
nom de prieuré de la Montagne, qu’il porte encore, comme un chacun
sait.

En l’année 1689, le 15 juillet au soir, l’abbé de Kerkabon, prieur de
Notre-Dame de la Montagne, se promenait sur le bord de la mer avec
mademoiselle de Kerkabon, sa soeur, pour prendre le frais. Le prieur,
déjà un peu sur l’âge, était un très bon ecclésiastique, aimé de ses
voisins, après l’avoir été autrefois de ses voisines. Ce qui lui avait
donné surtout une grande considération, c’est qu’il était le seul
bénéficier du pays qu’on ne fût pas obligé de porter dans son lit quand
il avait soupé avec ses confrères. Il savait assez honnêtement de
théologie; et quand il était las de lire saint Augustin, il s’amusait
avec Rabelais: aussi tout le monde disait du bien de lui.

Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, qui n’avait jamais été mariée, quoiqu’elle
eût grande envie de l’être, conservait de la fraîcheur à l’âge de
quarante-cinq ans; son caractère était bon et sensible; elle aimait le
plaisir et était dévote.

Le prieur disait à sa soeur, en regardant la mer: Hélas! c’est ici que
s’embarqua notre pauvre frère avec notre chère belle-soeur madame de
Kerkabon, sa femme, sur la frégate *l’Hirondelle*, en 1669, pour aller
servir en Canada. S’il n’avait pas été tué, nous pourrions espérer de
le revoir encore.

Croyez-vous, disait mademoiselle de Kerkabon, que notre belle-soeur ait
été mangée par les Iroquois, comme on nous l’a dit? Il est certain que
si elle n’avait pas été mangée, elle serait revenue au pays. Je la
pleurerai toute ma vie; c’était une femme charmante; et notre frère qui
avait beaucoup d’esprit aurait fait assurément une grande fortune.

Comme ils s’attendrissaient l’un et l’autre à ce souvenir, ils virent
entrer dans la baie de Rance un petit bâtiment qui arrivait avec la
marée: c’étaient des Anglais qui venaient vendre quelques denrées de
leur pays. Ils sautèrent à terre, sans regarder monsieur le prieur ni
mademoiselle sa soeur, qui fut très choquée du peu d’attention qu’on
avait pour elle.

Il n’en fut pas de même d’un jeune homme très bien fait qui s’élança
d’un saut par-dessus la tête de ses compagnons, et se trouva vis-à-vis
mademoiselle. Il lui fit un signe de tête, n’étant pas dans l’usage de
faire la révérence. Sa figure et son ajustement attirèrent les regards
du frère et de la soeur. Il était nu-tête et nu-jambes, les pieds
chaussés de petites sandales, le chef orné de longs cheveux en tresses,
un petit pourpoint qui serrait une taille fine et dégagée; l’air
martial et doux. Il tenait dans sa main une petite bouteille d’eau des
Barbades, et dans l’autre une espèce de bourse dans laquelle était un
gobelet et de très bon biscuit de mer. Il parlait français fort
intelligiblement. Il présenta de son eau des Barbades à mademoiselle de
Kerkabon et à monsieur son frère; il en but avec eux: il leur en fit
reboire encore, et tout cela d’un air si simple et si naturel, que le
frère et la soeur en furent charmés. Ils lui offrirent leurs services,
en lui demandant qui il était et où il allait. Le jeune homme leur
répondit qu’il n’en savait rien, qu’il était curieux, qu’il avait voulu
voir comment les côtes de France étaient faites, qu’il était venu, et
allait s’en retourner.

Monsieur le prieur jugeant à son accent qu’il n’était pas Anglais, prit
la liberté de lui demander de quel pays il était. Je suis Huron, lui
répondit le jeune homme.

Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, étonnée et enchantée de voir un Huron qui lui
avait fait des politesses, pria le jeune homme à souper; il ne se fit
pas prier deux fois, et tous trois allèrent de compagnie au prieuré de
Notre-Dame de la Montagne.

La courte et ronde demoiselle le regardait de tous ses petits yeux, et
disait de temps en temps au prieur: Ce grand garçon-là a un teint de
lis et de rose! qu’il a une belle peau pour un Huron! Vous avez raison,
ma soeur, disait le prieur. Elle fesait cent questions coup sur coup,
et le voyageur répondait toujours fort juste.

Le bruit se répandit bientôt qu’il y avait un Huron au prieuré. La
bonne compagnie du canton s’empressa d’y venir souper. L’abbé de
Saint-Yves y vint avec mademoiselle sa soeur, jeune basse-brette, fort
jolie et très bien élevée. Le bailli, le receveur des tailles, et leurs
femmes furent du souper. On plaça l’étranger entre mademoiselle de
Kerkabon et mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. Tout le monde le regardait avec
admiration; tout le monde lui parlait et l’interrogeait à-la-fois; le
Huron ne s’en émouvait pas. Il semblait qu’il eût pris pour sa devise
celle de milord Bolingbroke, *Nihil admirari*. Mais à la fin, excédé de
tant de bruit, il leur dit avec assez de douceur, mais avec un peu de
fermeté: Messieurs, dans mon pays on parle l’un après l’autre; comment
voulez-vous que je vous réponde quand vous m’empêchez de vous entendre?
La raison fait toujours rentrer les hommes en eux-mêmes pour quelques
moments: il se fit un grand silence. Monsieur le bailli, qui s’emparait
toujours des étrangers dans quelque maison qu’il se trouvât, et qui
était le plus grand questionneur de la province, lui dit en ouvrant la
bouche d’un demi-pied: Monsieur, comment vous nommez-vous? On m’a
toujours appelé l’Ingénu, reprit le Huron, et on m’a confirmé ce nom en
Angleterre, parceque je dis toujours naïvement ce que je pense, comme
je fais tout ce que je veux.

Comment, étant né Huron, avez-vous pu, monsieur, venir en Angleterre?
C’est qu’on m’y a mené; j’ai été fait, dans un combat, prisonnier par
les Anglais, après m’être assez bien défendu; et les Anglais, qui
aiment la bravoure, parcequ’ils sont braves et qu’ils sont aussi
honnêtes que nous, m’ayant proposé de me rendre à mes parents ou de
venir en Angleterre, j’acceptai le dernier parti, parceque de mon
naturel j’aime passionnément à voir du pays.

Mais, monsieur, dit le bailli avec son ton imposant, comment avez-vous
pu abandonner ainsi père et mère? C’est que je n’ai jamais connu ni
père ni mère, dit l’étranger. La compagnie s’attendrit, et tout le
monde répétait, *Ni père, ni mère!* Nous lui en servirons, dit la
maîtresse de la maison à son frère le prieur: que ce monsieur le Huron
est intéressant! L’Ingénu la remercia avec une cordialité noble et
fière, et lui fit comprendre qu’il n’avait besoin de rien.

Je m’aperçois, monsieur l’Ingénu, dit le grave bailli, que vous parlez
mieux français qu’il n’appartient à un Huron. Un Français, dit-il, que
nous avions pris dans ma grande jeunesse en Huronie, et pour qui je
conçus beaucoup d’amitié, m’enseigna sa langue; j’apprends très vite ce
que je veux apprendre. J’ai trouvé en arrivant à Plymouth un de vos
Français réfugiés que vous appelez *huguenots*, je ne sais pourquoi; il
m’a fait faire quelques progrès dans la connaissance de votre langue;
et dès que j’ai pu m’exprimer intelligiblement, je suis venu voir votre
pays, parceque j’aime assez les Français quand ils ne font pas trop de
questions.

L’abbé de Saint-Yves, malgré ce petit avertissement, lui demanda
laquelle des trois langues lui plaisait davantage, la hurone,
l’anglaise, ou la française. La hurone, sans contredit, répondit
l’Ingénu. Est-il possible? s’écria mademoiselle de Kerkabon; j’avais
toujours cru que le français était la plus belle de toutes les langues
après le bas-breton.

Alors ce fut à qui demanderait à l’Ingénu comment on disait en huron du
tabac, et il répondait *taya*: comment on disait manger, et il
répondait *essenten*. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon voulut absolument savoir
comment on disait faire l’amour; il lui répondit *trovander*[a]; et
soutint, non sans apparence de raison, que ces mots-là valaient bien
les mots français et anglais qui leur correspondaient. *Trovander*
parut très joli à tous les convives.

[a] Tous ces noms sont en effet hurons.

Monsieur le prieur, qui avait dans sa bibliothèque la grammaire hurone
dont le révérend P. Sagar Théodat, récollet, fameux missionnaire, lui
avait fait présent, sortit de table un moment pour l’aller consulter.
Il revint tout haletant de tendresse et de joie; il reconnut l’Ingénu
pour un vrai Huron. On disputa un peu sur la multiplicité des langues,
et on convint que, sans l’aventure de la tour de Babel, toute la terre
aurait parlé français.

L’interrogant bailli, qui jusque-là s’était défié un peu du personnage,
conçut pour lui un profond respect; il lui parla avec plus de civilité
qu’auparavant, de quoi l’Ingénu ne s’aperçut pas.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves était fort curieuse de savoir comment on
fesait l’amour au pays des Hurons. En fesant de belles actions,
répondit-il, pour plaire aux personnes qui vous ressemblent. Tous les
convives applaudirent avec étonnement. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves
rougit et fut fort aise. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon rougit aussi, mais
elle n’était pas si aise; elle fut un peu piquée que la galanterie ne
s’adressât pas à elle; mais elle était si bonne personne, que son
affection pour le Huron n’en fut point du tout altérée. Elle lui
demanda, avec beaucoup de bonté, combien il avait eu de maîtresses en
Huronie. Je n’en ai jamais eu qu’une, dit l’Ingénu; c’était
mademoiselle Abacaba, la bonne amie de ma chère nourrice; les joncs ne
sont pas plus droits, l’hermine n’est pas plus blanche, les moutons
sont moins doux, les aigles moins fiers, et les cerfs ne sont pas si
légers que l’était Abacaba. Elle poursuivait un jour un lièvre dans
notre voisinage, environ à cinquante lieues de notre habitation; un
Algonquin mal élevé, qui habitait cent lieues plus loin, vint lui
prendre son lièvre; je le sus, j’y courus, je terrassai l’Algonquin
d’un coup de massue, je l’amenai, aux pieds de ma maîtresse, pieds et
poings liés. Les parents d’Abacaba voulurent le manger, mais je n’eus
jamais de goût pour ces sortes de festins; je lui rendis sa liberté,
j’en fis un ami. Abacaba fut si touchée de mon procédé qu’elle me
préféra à tous ses amants. Elle m’aimerait encore si elle n’avait pas
été mangée par un ours: j’ai puni l’ours, j’ai porté longtemps sa peau;
mais cela ne m’a pas consolé.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, à ce récit, sentait un plaisir secret
d’apprendre que l’Ingénu n’avait eu qu’une maîtresse, et qu’Abacaba
n’était plus; mais elle ne démêlait pas la cause de son plaisir. Tout
le monde fixait les yeux sur l’Ingénu; on le louait beaucoup d’avoir
empêché ses camarades de manger un Algonquin.

L’impitoyable bailli, qui ne pouvait réprimer sa fureur de questionner,
poussa enfin la curiosité jusqu’à s’informer de quelle religion était
M. le Huron; s’il avait choisi la religion anglicane, ou la gallicane,
ou la huguenote? Je suis de ma religion, dit-il, comme vous de la
vôtre. Hélas! s’écria la Kerkabon, je vois bien que ces malheureux
Anglais n’ont pas seulement songé à le baptiser. Eh! mon Dieu, disait
mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, comment se peut-il que les Hurons ne soient
pas catholiques? Est-ce que les révérends pères jésuites ne les ont pas
tous convertis? L’Ingénu l’assura que dans son pays on ne convertissait
personne; que jamais un vrai Huron n’avait changé d’opinion, et que
même il n’y avait point dans sa langue de terme qui signifiât
*inconstance*. Ces derniers mots plurent extrêmement à mademoiselle de
Saint-Yves.

Nous le baptiserons, nous le baptiserons, disait la Kerkabon à M. le
prieur; vous en aurez l’honneur, mon cher frère; je veux absolument
être sa marraine: M. l’abbé de Saint-Yves le présentera sur les fonts:
ce sera une cérémonie bien brillante; il en sera parlé dans toute la
Basse-Bretagne, et cela nous fera un honneur infini. Toute la compagnie
seconda la maîtresse de la maison; tous les convives criaient: Nous le
baptiserons! L’Ingénu répondit qu’en Angleterre on laissait vivre les
gens à leur fantaisie. Il témoigna que la proposition ne lui plaisait
point du tout, et que la loi des Hurons valait pour le moins la loi des
Bas-Bretons; enfin il dit qu’il repartait le lendemain. On acheva de
vider sa bouteille d’eau des Barbades, et chacun s’alla coucher.

Quand on eut reconduit l’Ingénu dans sa chambre, mademoiselle de
Kerkabon et son amie mademoiselle de Saint-Yves ne purent se tenir de
regarder par le trou d’une large serrure pour voir comment dormait un
Huron. Elles virent qu’il avait étendu la couverture du lit sur le
plancher, et qu’il reposait dans la plus belle attitude du monde.

### Chapter II

Le Huron, nommé l’Ingénu, reconnu de ses parents.

L’Ingénu, selon sa coutume, s’éveilla avec le soleil, au chant du coq,
qu’on appelle en Angleterre et en Huronie *la trompette du jour*. Il
n’était pas comme la bonne compagnie, qui languit dans un lit oiseux
jusqu’à ce que le soleil ait fait la moitié de son tour, qui ne peut ni
dormir ni se lever, qui perd tant d’heures précieuses dans cet état
mitoyen entre la vie et la mort, et qui se plaint encore que la vie est
trop courte.

Il avait déjà fait deux ou trois lieues, il avait tué trente pièces de
gibier à balle seule, lorsqu’en rentrant il trouva monsieur le prieur
de Notre-Dame de la Montagne et sa discrète soeur, se promenant en
bonnet de nuit dans leur petit jardin. Il leur présenta toute sa
chasse, et en tirant de sa chemise une espèce de petit talisman qu’il
portait toujours à son cou, il les pria de l’accepter en reconnaissance
de leur bonne réception. C’est ce que j’ai de plus précieux, leur
dit-il; on m’a assuré que je serais toujours heureux tant que je
porterais ce petit brimborion sur moi, et je vous le donne afin que
vous soyez toujours heureux.

Le prieur et mademoiselle sourirent avec attendrissement de la naïveté
de l’Ingénu. Ce présent consistait en deux petits portraits assez mal
faits, attachés ensemble avec une courroie fort grasse.

Mademoiselle de Kerkabon lui demanda s’il y avait des peintres en
Huronie. Non, dit l’Ingénu; cette rareté me vient de ma nourrice; son
mari l’avait eue par conquête, en dépouillant quelques Français du
Canada qui nous avaient fait la guerre; c’est tout ce que j’en ai su.

Le prieur regardait attentivement ces portraits; il changea de couleur,
il s’émut, ses mains tremblèrent. Par Notre-Dame de la Montagne,
s’écria-t-il, je crois que voilà le visage de mon frère le capitaine et
de sa femme! Mademoiselle, après les avoir considérés avec la même
émotion, en jugea de même. Tous deux étaient saisis d’étonnement et
d’une joie mêlée de douleur; tous deux s’attendrissaient; tous deux
pleuraient; leur coeur palpitait; ils poussaient des cris; ils
s’arrachaient les portraits; chacun d’eux les prenait et les rendait
vingt fois en une seconde; ils dévoraient des yeux les portraits et le
Huron; ils lui demandaient l’un après l’autre, et tous deux à-la-fois,
en quel lieu, en quel temps, comment ces miniatures étaient tombées
entre les mains de sa nourrice; ils rapprochaient, ils comptaient les
temps depuis le départ du capitaine; ils se souvenaient d’avoir eu
nouvelle qu’il avait été jusqu’au pays des Hurons, et que depuis ce
temps ils n’en avaient jamais entendu parler.

L’Ingénu leur avait dit qu’il n’avait connu ni père ni mère. Le prieur,
qui était homme de sens, remarqua que l’Ingénu avait un peu de barbe;
il savait très bien que les Hurons n’en ont point. Son menton est
cotonné, il est donc fils d’un homme d’Europe; mon frère et ma
belle-soeur ne parurent plus après l’expédition contre les Hurons, en
1669: mon neveu devait alors être à la mamelle: la nourrice hurone lui
a sauvé la vie et lui a servi de mère. Enfin, après cent questions et
cent réponses, le prieur et sa soeur conclurent que le Huron était leur
propre neveu. Ils l’embrassaient en versant des larmes; et l’Ingénu
riait, ne pouvant s’imaginer qu’un Huron fût neveu d’un prieur
bas-breton.

Toute la compagnie descendit; M. de Saint-Yves, qui était grand
physionomiste, compara les deux portraits avec le visage de l’Ingénu;
il fit très habilement remarquer qu’il avait les yeux de sa mère, le
front et le nez de feu monsieur le capitaine de Kerkabon, et des joues
qui tenaient de l’un et de l’autre.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, qui n’avait jamais vu le père ni la mère,
assura que l’Ingénu leur ressemblait parfaitement. Ils admiraient tous
la Providence et l’enchaînement des événements de ce monde. Enfin on
était si persuadé, si convaincu de la naissance de l’Ingénu, qu’il
consentit lui-même à être neveu de monsieur le prieur, en disant qu’il
aimait autant l’avoir pour oncle qu’un autre.

On alla rendre grâce à Dieu dans l’église de Notre-Dame de la Montagne,
tandis que le Huron d’un air indifférent s’amusait à boire dans la
maison.

Les Anglais qui l’avaient amené, et qui étaient prêts à mettre à la
voile, vinrent lui dire qu’il était temps de partir. Apparemment, leur
dit-il, que vous n’avez pas retrouvé vos oncles et vos tantes; je reste
ici; retournez à Plymouth, je vous donne toutes mes hardes, je n’ai
plus besoin de rien au monde, puisque je suis le neveu d’un prieur. Les
Anglais mirent à la voile, en se souciant fort peu que l’Ingénu eût des
parents ou non en Basse-Bretagne.

Après que l’oncle, la tante, et la compagnie, eurent chanté le *Te
Deum*; après que le bailli eut encore accablé l’Ingénu de questions;
après qu’on eut épuisé tout ce que l’étonnement, la joie, la tendresse,
peuvent faire dire, le prieur de la Montagne et l’abbé de Saint-Yves
conclurent à faire baptiser l’Ingénu au plus vite. Mais il n’en était
pas d’un grand Huron de vingt-deux ans, comme d’un enfant qu’on
régénère sans qu’il en sache rien. Il fallait l’instruire, et cela
paraissait difficile; car l’abbé de Saint-Yves supposait qu’un homme
qui n’était pas né en France n’avait pas le sens commun.

Le prieur fit observer à la compagnie que, si en effet M. l’Ingénu, son
neveu, n’avait pas eu le bonheur de naître en Basse-Bretagne, il n’en
avait pas moins d’esprit; qu’on en pouvait juger par toutes ses
réponses, et que sûrement la nature l’avait beaucoup favorisé, tant du
côté paternel que du maternel.

On lui demanda d’abord s’il avait jamais lu quelque livre. Il dit qu’il
avait lu Rabelais traduit en anglais, et quelques morceaux de
Shakespeare qu’il savait par coeur; qu’il avait trouvé ces livres chez
le capitaine du vaisseau qui l’avait amené de l’Amérique à Plymouth, et
qu’il en était fort content. Le bailli ne manqua pas de l’interroger
sur ces livres. Je vous avoue, dit l’Ingénu, que j’ai cru en deviner
quelque chose, et que je n’ai pas entendu le reste.

L’abbé de Saint-Yves, à ce discours, fit réflexion que c’était ainsi
que lui-même avait toujours lu, et que la plupart des hommes ne
lisaient guère autrement. Vous avez sans doute lu la *Bible*? dit-il au
Huron. Point du tout, monsieur l’abbé; elle n’était pas parmi les
livres de mon capitaine; je n’en ai jamais entendu parler. Voilà comme
sont ces maudits Anglais, criait mademoiselle de Kerkabon, ils feront
plus de cas d’une pièce de Shakespeare, d’un plum-pudding et d’une
bouteille de rum que du Pentateuque. Aussi n’ont-ils jamais converti
personne en Amérique. Certainement ils sont maudits de Dieu; et nous
leur prendrons la Jamaïque et la Virginie avant qu’il soit peu de
temps.

Quoi qu’il en soit, on fit venir le plus habile tailleur de Saint-Malo
pour habiller l’Ingénu de pied en cap. La compagnie se sépara; le
bailli alla faire ses questions ailleurs. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves,
en partant, se retourna plusieurs fois pour regarder l’Ingénu; et il
lui fit des révérences plus profondes qu’il n’en avait jamais fait à
personne en sa vie.

Le bailli, avant de prendre congé, présenta à mademoiselle de
Saint-Yves un grand nigaud de fils qui sortait du collège; mais à peine
le regarda-t-elle, tant elle était occupée de la politesse du Huron.

### Chapter III

Le Huron, nommé l’Ingénu, converti.

Monsieur le prieur voyant qu’il était un peu sur l’âge, et que Dieu lui
envoyait un neveu pour sa consolation, se mit en tête qu’il pourrait
lui résigner son bénéfice, s’il réussissait à le baptiser, et à le
faire entrer dans les ordres.

L’Ingénu avait une mémoire excellente. La fermeté des organes de
Basse-Bretagne, fortifiée par le climat du Canada, avait rendu sa tête
si vigoureuse, que quand on frappait dessus, à peine le sentait-il; et
quand on gravait dedans, rien ne s’effaçait; il n’avait jamais rien
oublié. Sa conception était d’autant plus vive, et plus nette, que son
enfance n’ayant point été chargée des inutilités et des sottises qui
accablent la nôtre, les choses entraient dans sa cervelle sans nuage.
Le prieur résolut enfin de lui faire lire le nouveau *Testament*.
L’Ingénu le dévora avec beaucoup de plaisir; mais ne sachant ni dans
quel temps ni dans quel pays toutes les aventures rapportées dans ce
livre étaient arrivées, il ne douta point que le lieu de la scène ne
fût en Basse-Bretagne; et il jura qu’il couperait le nez et les
oreilles à Caïphe et à Pilate, si jamais il rencontrait ces marauds-là.

Son oncle, charmé de ces bonnes dispositions, le mit au fait en peu de
temps; il loua son zèle; mais il lui apprit que ce zèle était inutile,
attendu que ces gens-là étaient morts il y avait environ seize cent
quatre-vingt-dix années. L’Ingénu sut bientôt presque tout le livre par
coeur. Il proposait quelquefois des difficultés qui mettaient le prieur
fort en peine. Il était obligé souvent de consulter l’abbé de
Saint-Yves, qui, ne sachant que répondre, fit venir un jésuite
bas-breton pour achever la conversion du Huron.

Enfin la grâce opéra; l’Ingénu promit de se faire chrétien; il ne douta
pas qu’il ne dût commencer par être circoncis; car, disait-il, je ne
vois pas dans le livre qu’on m’a fait lire un seul personnage qui ne
l’ait été; il est donc évident que je dois faire le sacrifice de mon
prépuce; le plus tôt c’est le mieux. Il ne délibéra point: il envoya
chercher le chirurgien du village, et le pria de lui faire l’opération,
comptant réjouir infiniment mademoiselle de Kerkabon et toute la
compagnie, quand une fois la chose serait faite. Le frater, qui n’avait
point encore fait cette opération, en avertit la famille, qui jeta les
hauts cris. La bonne Kerkabon trembla que son neveu, qui paraissait
résolu et expéditif, ne se fît lui-même l’opération très
maladroitement, et qu’il n’en résultât de tristes effets, auxquels les
dames s’intéressent toujours par bonté d’âme.

Le prieur redressa les idées du Huron; il lui remontra que la
circoncision n’était plus de mode; que le baptême était beaucoup plus
doux et plus salutaire; que la loi de grâce n’était pas comme la loi de
rigueur. L’Ingénu, qui avait beaucoup de bon sens et de droiture,
disputa, mais reconnut son erreur; ce qui est assez rare en Europe aux
gens qui disputent; enfin il promit de se faire baptiser quand on
voudrait.

Il fallait auparavant se confesser; et c’était là le plus difficile.
L’Ingénu avait toujours en poche le livre que son oncle lui avait
donné. Il n’y trouvait pas qu’un seul apôtre se fût confessé, et cela
le rendait très rétif. Le prieur lui ferma la bouche en lui montrant,
dans l’épître de saint Jacques-le-Mineur, ces mots qui font tant de
peine aux hérétiques: *Confessez vos péchés les uns aux autres*. Le
Huron se tut, et se confessa à un récollet. Quand il eut fini, il tira
le récollet du confessionnal, et saisissant son homme d’un bras
vigoureux, il se mit à sa place, et le fit mettre à genoux devant lui:
Allons, mon ami, il est dit: *Confessez-vous les uns aux autres*; je
t’ai conté mes péchés, tu ne sortiras pas d’ici que tu ne m’aies conté
les tiens. En parlant ainsi, il appuyait son large genou contre la
poitrine de son adverse partie. Le récollet pousse des hurlements qui
font retentir l’église. On accourt au bruit, on voit le catéchumène qui
gourmait le moine au nom de saint Jacques-le-Mineur. La joie de
baptiser un Bas-Breton huron et anglais était si grande, qu’on passa
par-dessus ces singularités. Il y eut même beaucoup de théologiens qui
pensèrent que la confession n’était pas nécessaire, puisque le baptême
tenait lieu de tout.

On prit jour avec l’évêque de Saint-Malo, qui, flatté comme on peut le
croire de baptiser un Huron, arriva dans un pompeux équipage, suivi de
son clergé. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, en bénissant Dieu, mit sa plus
belle robe, et fit venir une coiffeuse de Saint-Malo, pour briller à la
cérémonie. L’interrogant bailli accourut avec toute la contrée.
L’église était magnifiquement parée; mais quand il fallut prendre le
Huron pour le mener aux fonts baptismaux, on ne le trouva point.

L’oncle et la tante le cherchèrent partout. On crut qu’il était à la
chasse, selon sa coutume. Tous les conviés à la fête parcoururent les
bois et les villages voisins: point de nouvelles du Huron.

On commençait à craindre qu’il ne fût retourné en Angleterre. On se
souvenait de lui avoir entendu dire qu’il aimait fort ce pays-là.
Monsieur le prieur et sa soeur étaient persuadés qu’on n’y baptisait
personne, et tremblaient pour l’âme de leur neveu. L’évêque était
confondu et prêt à s’en retourner; le prieur et l’abbé de Saint-Yves se
désespéraient; le bailli interrogeait tous les passants avec sa gravité
ordinaire; mademoiselle de Kerkabon pleurait; mademoiselle de
Saint-Yves ne pleurait pas, mais elle poussait de profonds soupirs qui
semblaient témoigner son goût pour les sacrements. Elles se promenaient
tristement le long des saules et des roseaux qui bordent la petite
rivière de Rance, lorsqu’elles aperçurent au milieu de la rivière une
grande figure assez blanche, les deux mains croisées sur la poitrine.
Elles jetèrent un grand cri et se détournèrent. Mais la curiosité
l’emportant bientôt sur toute autre considération, elles se coulèrent
doucement entre les roseaux; et quand elles furent bien sûres de n’être
point vues, elles voulurent voir de quoi il s’agissait.

### Chapter IV

L’Ingénu baptisé.

Le prieur et l’abbé étant accourus demandèrent à l’Ingénu ce qu’il
fesait là. Eh parbleu! messieurs, j’attends le baptême: il y a une
heure que je suis dans l’eau jusqu’au cou, et il n’est pas honnête de
me laisser morfondre.

Mon cher neveu, lui dit tendrement le prieur, ce n’est pas ainsi qu’on
baptise en Basse-Bretagne; reprenez vos habits et venez avec nous.
Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, en entendant ce discours, disait tout bas à
sa compagne: Mademoiselle, croyez-vous qu’il reprenne sitôt ses habits?

Le Huron cependant repartit au prieur: Vous ne m’en ferez pas accroire
cette fois-ci comme l’autre; j’ai bien étudié depuis ce temps-là, et je
suis très certain qu’on ne se baptise pas autrement. L’eunuque de la
reine Candace[a] fut baptisé dans un ruisseau; je vous défie de me
montrer dans le livre que vous m’avez donné qu’on s’y soit jamais pris
d’une autre façon. Je ne serai point baptisé du tout, ou je le serai
dans la rivière. On eut beau lui remontrer que les usages avaient
changé, l’Ingénu était têtu, car il était breton et huron. Il revenait
toujours à l’eunuque de la reine Candace; et quoique mademoiselle sa
tante et mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, qui l’avaient observé entre les
saules, fussent en droit de lui dire qu’il ne lui appartenait pas de
citer un pareil homme, elles n’en firent pourtant rien, tant était
grande leur discrétion. L’évêque vint lui-même lui parler, ce qui est
beaucoup; mais il ne gagna rien: le Huron disputa contre l’évêque.

[a] *N. B.* «Comment le P. Quesnel aurait-il ignoré que Candace était le
nom des belles reines d’Ethiopie, comme Pharaon ou Pharon était le
titre des rois d’Égypte?»

Montrez-moi, lui dit-il, dans le livre que m’a donné mon oncle, un seul
homme qui n’ait pas été baptisé dans la rivière, et je ferai tout ce
que vous voudrez.

La tante, désespérée, avait remarqué que la première fois que son neveu
avait fait la révérence, il en avait fait une plus profonde à
mademoiselle de Saint-Yves qu’à aucune autre personne de la compagnie,
qu’il n’avait pas même salué monsieur l’évêque avec ce respect mêlé de
cordialité qu’il avait témoigné à cette belle demoiselle. Elle prit le
parti de s’adresser à elle dans ce grand embarras; elle la pria
d’interposer son crédit pour engager le Huron à se faire baptiser de la
même manière que les Bretons, ne croyant pas que son neveu pût jamais
être chrétien s’il persistait à vouloir être baptisé dans l’eau
courante.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves rougit du plaisir secret qu’elle sentait
d’être chargée d’une si importante commission. Elle s’approcha
modestement de l’Ingénu, et lui serrant la main d’une manière
tout-à-fait noble: Est-ce que vous ne ferez rien pour moi? lui
dit-elle; et en prononçant ces mots elle baissait les yeux, et les
relevait avec une grâce attendrissante. Ah! tout ce que vous voudrez,
mademoiselle, tout ce que vous me commanderez; baptême d’eau, baptême
de feu, baptême de sang, il n’y a rien que je vous refuse.
Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves eut la gloire de faire en deux paroles ce
que ni les empressements du prieur, ni les interrogations réitérées du
bailli, ni les raisonnements même de monsieur l’évêque, n’avaient pu
faire. Elle sentit son triomphe; mais elle n’en sentait pas encore
toute l’étendue.

Le baptême fut administré et reçu avec toute la décence, toute la
magnificence, tout l’agrément possibles. L’oncle et la tante cédèrent à
monsieur l’abbé de Saint-Yves et à sa soeur l’honneur de tenir l’Ingénu
sur les fonts. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves rayonnait de joie de se voir
marraine. Elle ne savait pas à quoi ce grand titre l’asservissait; elle
accepta cet honneur sans en connaître les fatales conséquences.

Comme il n’y a jamais eu de cérémonie qui ne fût suivie d’un grand
dîner, on se mit à table au sortir du baptême. Les goguenards de
Basse-Bretagne dirent qu’il ne fallait pas baptiser son vin. Monsieur
le prieur disait que le vin, selon Salomon, réjouit le coeur de
l’homme. Monsieur l’évêque ajoutait que le patriarche Juda devait lier
son ânon à la vigne, et tremper son manteau dans le sang du raisin, et
qu’il était bien triste qu’on n’en pût faire autant en Basse-Bretagne,
à laquelle Dieu avait dénié les vignes. Chacun tâchait de dire un bon
mot sur le baptême de l’Ingénu, et des galanteries à la marraine. Le
bailli, toujours interrogant, demandait au Huron s’il serait fidèle à
ses promesses. Comment voulez-vous que je manque à mes promesses,
répondit le Huron, puisque je les ai faites entre les mains de
mademoiselle de Saint-Yves?

Le Huron s’échauffa; il but beaucoup à la santé de sa marraine. Si
j’avais été baptisé de votre main, dit-il, je sens que l’eau froide
qu’on m’a versée sur le chignon m’aurait brûlé. Le bailli trouva cela
trop poétique, ne sachant pas combien l’allégorie est familière au
Canada. Mais la marraine en fut extrêmement contente.

On avait donné le nom d’Hercule au baptisé. L’évêque de Saint-Malo
demandait toujours quel était ce patron dont il n’avait jamais entendu
parler. Le jésuite, qui était fort savant, lui dit que c’était un saint
qui avait fait douze miracles. Il y en avait un treizième qui valait
les douze autres, mais dont il ne convenait pas à un jésuite de parler;
c’était celui d’avoir changé cinquante filles en femmes en une seule
nuit. Un plaisant qui se trouva là releva ce miracle avec énergie.
Toutes les dames baissèrent les yeux, et jugèrent à la physionomie de
l’Ingénu qu’il était digne du saint dont il portait le nom.

### Chapter V

L’Ingénu amoureux.

Il faut avouer que depuis ce baptême et ce dîner mademoiselle de
Saint-Yves souhaita passionnément que monsieur l’évêque la fît encore
participante de quelque beau sacrement avec M. Hercule l’Ingénu.
Cependant, comme elle était bien élevée et fort modeste, elle n’osait
convenir tout-à-fait avec elle-même de ses tendres sentiments; mais,
s’il lui échappait un regard, un mot, un geste, une pensée, elle
enveloppait tout cela d’un voile de pudeur infiniment aimable. Elle
était tendre, vive, et sage.

Dès que monsieur l’évêque fut parti, l’Ingénu et mademoiselle de
Saint-Yves se rencontrèrent sans avoir fait réflexion qu’ils se
cherchaient. Ils se parlèrent sans avoir imaginé ce qu’ils se diraient.
L’Ingénu lui dit d’abord qu’il l’aimait de tout son coeur, et que la
belle Abacaba, dont il avait été fou dans son pays, n’approchait pas
d’elle. Mademoiselle lui répondit, avec sa modestie ordinaire, qu’il
fallait en parler au plus vite à monsieur le prieur son oncle et à
mademoiselle sa tante, et que de son côté elle en dirait deux mots à
son cher frère l’abbé de Saint-Yves, et qu’elle se flattait d’un
consentement commun.

L’Ingénu lui répond qu’il n’avait besoin du consentement de personne,
qu’il lui paraissait extrêmement ridicule d’aller demander à d’autres
ce qu’on devait faire; que, quand deux parties sont d’accord, on n’a
pas besoin d’un tiers pour les accommoder. Je ne consulte personne,
dit-il, quand j’ai envie de déjeuner, ou de chasser, ou de dormir: je
sais bien qu’en amour il n’est pas mal d’avoir le consentement de la
personne à qui on en veut: mais, comme ce n’est ni de mon oncle ni de
ma tante que je suis amoureux, ce n’est pas à eux que je dois
m’adresser dans cette affaire, et, si vous m’en croyez, vous vous
passerez aussi de monsieur l’abbé de Saint-Yves.

On peut juger que la belle Bretonne employa toute la délicatesse de son
esprit à réduire son Huron aux termes de la bienséance. Elle se fâcha
même, et bientôt se radoucit. Enfin on ne sait comment aurait fini
cette conversation, si, le jour baissant, monsieur l’abbé n’avait
ramené sa soeur à son abbaye. L’Ingénu laissa coucher son oncle et sa
tante, qui étaient un peu fatigués de la cérémonie et de leur long
dîner. Il passa une partie de la nuit à faire des vers en langue hurone
pour sa bien-aimée; car il faut savoir qu’il n’y a aucun pays de la
terre où l’amour n’ait rendu les amants poètes.

Le lendemain son oncle lui parla ainsi après le déjeuner, en présence
de mademoiselle de Kerkabon, qui était tout attendrie: Le ciel soit
loué de ce que vous avez l’honneur, mon cher neveu, d’être chrétien et
Bas-Breton! mais cela ne suffit pas; je suis un peu sur l’âge; mon
frère n’a laissé qu’un petit coin de terre qui est très peu de chose;
j’ai un bon prieuré; si vous voulez seulement vous faire sous-diacre,
comme je l’espère, je vous résignerai mon prieuré, et vous vivrez fort
à votre aise, après avoir été la consolation de ma vieillesse.

L’Ingénu répondit: Mon oncle, grand bien vous fasse! vivez tant que
vous pourrez. Je ne sais pas ce que c’est que d’être sous-diacre ni que
de résigner; mais tout me sera bon pourvu que j’aie mademoiselle de
Saint-Yves à ma disposition. Eh! mon Dieu, mon neveu, que me dites-vous
là? Vous aimez donc cette belle demoiselle à la folie?—Oui, mon
oncle.—- Hélas! mon neveu, il est impossible que vous l’épousiez.—Cela
est très possible, mon oncle; car non seulement elle m’a serré la main
en me quittant, mais elle m’a promis qu’elle me demanderait en mariage;
et assurément je l’épouserai.—Cela est impossible, vous dis-je, elle
est votre marraine; c’est un péché épouvantable à une marraine de
serrer la main de son filleul: il n’est pas permis d’épouser sa
marraine; les lois divines et humaines s’y opposent.—Morbleu! mon
oncle, vous vous moquez de moi: pourquoi serait-il défendu d’épouser sa
marraine, quand elle est jeune et jolie? Je n’ai point vu dans le livre
que vous m’avez donné qu’il fût mal d’épouser les filles qui ont aidé
les gens à être baptisés. Je m’aperçois tous les jours qu’on fait ici
une infinité de choses qui ne sont point dans votre livre, et qu’on n’y
fait rien de tout ce qu’il dit: je vous avoue que cela m’étonne et me
fâche. Si on me prive de la belle Saint-Yves, sous prétexte de mon
baptême, je vous avertis que je l’enlève, et que je me débaptise.

Le prieur fut confondu; sa soeur pleura. Mon cher frère, dit-elle, il
ne faut pas que notre neveu se damne; notre saint-père le pape peut lui
donner dispense, et alors il pourra être chrétiennement heureux avec ce
qu’il aime. L’Ingénu embrassa sa tante. Quel est donc, dit-il, cet
homme charmant qui favorise avec tant de bonté les garçons et les
filles dans leurs amours? Je veux lui aller parler tout-à-l’heure.

On lui expliqua ce que c’était que le pape; et l’Ingénu fut encore plus
étonné qu’auparavant. Il n’y a pas un mot de tout cela dans votre
livre, mon cher oncle; j’ai voyagé, je connais la mer; nous sommes ici
sur la côte de l’océan; et je quitterais mademoiselle de Saint-Yves
pour aller demander la permission de l’aimer à un homme qui demeure
vers la Méditerranée, à quatre cents lieues d’ici, et dont je n’entends
point la langue! cela est d’un ridicule incompréhensible. Je vais
sur-le-champ chez monsieur l’abbé de Saint-Yves, qui ne demeure qu’à
une lieue de vous, et je vous réponds que j’épouserai ma maîtresse dans
la journée.

Comme il parlait encore, entra le bailli qui, selon sa coutume, lui
demanda où il allait. Je vais me marier, dit l’Ingénu en courant; et au
bout d’un quart d’heure il était déjà chez sa belle et chère
basse-brette qui dormait encore. Ah! mon frère, disait mademoiselle de
Kerkabon au prieur, jamais vous ne ferez un sous-diacre de notre neveu.

Le bailli fut très mécontent de ce voyage; car il prétendait que son
fils épousât la Saint-Yves; et ce fils était encore plus sot et plus
insupportable que son père.

### Chapter VI

L’Ingénu court chez sa maîtresse, et devient furieux.

A peine l’Ingénu était arrivé, qu’ayant demandé à une vieille servante
où était la chambre de sa maîtresse, il avait poussé fortement la porte
mal fermée, et s’était élancé vers le lit. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves,
se réveillant en sursaut, s’était écriée: Quoi! c’est vous! ah! c’est
vous! arrêtez-vous, que faites-vous? Il avait répondu: Je vous épouse;
et en effet il l’épousait, si elle ne s’était pas débattue avec toute
l’honnêteté d’une personne qui a de l’éducation.

L’Ingénu n’entendait pas raillerie; il trouvait toutes ces façons-là
extrêmement impertinentes. Ce n’était pas ainsi qu’en usait
mademoiselle Abacaba, ma première maîtresse; vous n’avez point de
probité; vous m’avez promis mariage, et vous ne voulez point faire
mariage; c’est manquer aux premières lois de l’honneur; je vous
apprendrai à tenir votre parole, et je vous remettrai dans le chemin de
la vertu.

L’Ingénu possédait une vertu mâle et intrépide, digne de son patron
Hercule, dont on lui avait donné le nom à son baptême; il allait
l’exercer dans toute son étendue, lorsqu’aux cris perçants de la
demoiselle plus discrètement vertueuse, accourut le sage abbé de
Saint-Yves, avec sa gouvernante, un vieux domestique dévot, et un
prêtre de paroisse. Cette vue modéra le courage de l’assaillant. Eh,
mon Dieu! mon cher voisin, lui dit l’abbé, que faites-vous là? Mon
devoir, répliqua le jeune homme; je remplis mes promesses, qui sont
sacrées.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves se rajusta en rougissant. On emmena l’Ingénu
dans un autre appartement. L’abbé lui remontra l’énormité du procédé.
L’Ingénu se défendit sur les privilèges de la loi naturelle, qu’il
connaissait parfaitement. L’abbé voulut prouver que la loi positive
devait avoir tout l’avantage, et que, sans les conventions faites entre
les hommes, la loi de nature ne serait presque jamais qu’un brigandage
naturel. Il faut, lui disait-il, des notaires, des prêtres, des
témoins, des contrats, des dispenses. L’Ingénu lui répondit par la
réflexion que les sauvages ont toujours faite: Vous êtes donc de bien
malhonnêtes gens, puisqu’il faut entre vous tant de précautions.

L’abbé eut de la peine à résoudre cette difficulté. Il y a, dit-il, je
l’avoue, beaucoup d’inconstants et de fripons parmi nous; et il y en
aurait autant chez les Hurons, s’ils étaient rassemblés dans une grande
ville; mais aussi il y a des âmes sages, honnêtes, éclairées, et ce
sont ces hommes-là qui ont fait les lois. Plus on est homme de bien,
plus on doit s’y soumettre; on donne l’exemple aux vicieux, qui
respectent un frein que la vertu s’est donné elle-même.

Cette réponse frappa l’Ingénu. On a déjà remarqué qu’il avait l’esprit
juste. On l’adoucit par des paroles flatteuses; on lui donna des
espérances: ce sont les deux pièges où les hommes des deux hémisphères
se prennent; on lui présenta même mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, quand
elle eut fait sa toilette. Tout se passa avec la plus grande
bienséance, mais, malgré cette décence, les yeux étincelants de
l’Ingénu Hercule firent toujours baisser ceux de sa maîtresse, et
trembler la compagnie.

On eut une peine extrême à le renvoyer chez ses parents. Il fallut
encore employer le crédit de la belle Saint-Yves; plus elle sentait son
pouvoir sur lui, et plus elle l’aimait. Elle le fit partir, et en fut
très affligée: enfin, quand il fut parti, l’abbé, qui non seulement
était le frère très aîné de mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, mais qui était
aussi son tuteur, prit le parti de soustraire sa pupille aux
empressements de cet amant terrible. Il alla consulter le bailli, qui,
destinant toujours son fils à la soeur de l’abbé, lui conseilla de
mettre la pauvre fille dans une communauté. Ce fut un coup terrible:
une indifférente qu’on mettrait en couvent jetterait les hauts cris;
mais une amante, et une amante aussi sage que tendre! c’était de quoi
la mettre au désespoir.

L’Ingénu, de retour chez le prieur, raconta tout avec sa naïveté
ordinaire. Il essuya les mêmes remontrances qui firent quelque effet
sur son esprit, et aucun sur ses sens; mais le lendemain, quand il
voulut retourner chez sa belle maîtresse, pour raisonner avec elle sur
la loi naturelle et sur la loi de convention, monsieur le bailli lui
apprit avec une joie insultante qu’elle était dans un couvent. Eh bien!
dit-il, j’irai raisonner dans ce couvent. Cela ne se peut, dit le
bailli: il lui expliqua fort au long ce que c’était qu’un couvent ou un
convent, que ce mot venait du latin *conventus*, qui signifie
assemblée; et le Huron ne pouvait comprendre pourquoi il ne pouvait pas
être admis dans l’assemblée. Sitôt qu’il fut instruit que cette
assemblée était une espèce de prison où l’on tenait les filles
renfermées, chose horrible, inconnue chez les Hurons et chez les
Anglais, il devint aussi furieux que le fut son patron Hercule, lorsque
Euryte, roi d’Oechalie, non moins cruel que l’abbé de Saint-Yves, lui
refusa la belle Iole sa fille, non moins belle que la soeur de l’abbé.
Il voulait aller mettre le feu au couvent, enlever sa maîtresse, ou se
brûler avec elle. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, épouvantée, renonçait plus
que jamais à toutes les espérances de voir son neveu sous-diacre, et
disait en pleurant qu’il avait le diable au corps depuis qu’il était
baptisé.

### Chapter VII

L’Ingénu repousse les Anglais.

L’Ingénu, plongé dans une sombre et profonde mélancolie, se promena
vers le bord de la mer, son fusil à deux coups sur l’épaule, son grand
coutelas au côté, tirant de temps en temps sur quelques oiseaux, et
souvent tenté de tirer sur lui-même: mais il aimait encore la vie, à
cause de mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. Tantôt il maudissait son oncle, sa
tante, toute la Basse-Bretagne, et son baptême; tantôt il les
bénissait, puisqu’ils lui avaient fait connaître celle qu’il aimait. Il
prenait sa résolution d’aller brûler le couvent, et il s’arrêtait tout
court, de peur de brûler sa maîtresse. Les flots de la Manche ne sont
pas plus agités par les vents d’est et d’ouest que son coeur l’était
par tant de mouvements contraires.

Il marchait à grands pas, sans savoir où, lorsqu’il entendit le son du
tambour. Il vit de loin tout un peuple dont une moitié courait au
rivage, et l’autre s’enfuyait.

Mille cris s’élèvent de tous côtés; la curiosité et le courage le
précipitent à l’instant vers l’endroit d’où partaient ces clameurs, il
y vole en quatre bonds. Le commandant de la milice, qui avait soupé
avec lui chez le prieur, le reconnut aussitôt; il court à lui, les bras
ouverts: Ah! c’est l’Ingénu, il combattra pour nous. Et les milices,
qui mouraient de peur, se rassurèrent et crièrent aussi: C’est
l’Ingénu! c’est l’Ingénu!

Messieurs, dit-il, de quoi s’agit-il? pourquoi êtes-vous si effarés?
a-t-on mis vos maîtresses dans des couvents? Alors cent voix confuses
s’écrient: Ne voyez-vous pas les Anglais qui abordent? Eh bien!
répliqua le Huron, ce sont de braves gens; ils ne m’ont point enlevé ma
maîtresse.

Le commandant lui fit entendre que les Anglais venaient piller l’abbaye
de la Montagne, boire le vin de son oncle, et peut-être enlever
mademoiselle de Saint-Yves; que le petit vaisseau sur lequel il avait
abordé en Bretagne n’était venu que pour reconnaître la côte; qu’ils
fesaient des actes d’hostilité, sans avoir déclaré la guerre au roi de
France, et que la province était exposée. Ah! si cela est, ils violent
la loi naturelle; laissez-moi faire; j’ai demeuré long-temps parmi eux,
je sais leur langue, je leur parlerai; je ne crois pas qu’ils puissent
avoir un si méchant dessein.

Pendant cette conversation, l’escadre anglaise approchait; voilà le
Huron qui court vers elle, se jette dans un petit bateau, arrive, monte
au vaisseau amiral, et demande s’il est vrai qu’ils viennent ravager le
pays sans avoir déclaré la guerre honnêtement. L’amiral et tout son
bord firent de grands éclats de rire, lui firent boire du punch, et le
renvoyèrent.

L’Ingénu piqué ne songea plus qu’à se bien battre contre ses anciens
amis, pour ses compatriotes et pour monsieur le prieur. Les
gentilshommes du voisinage accouraient de toutes parts; il se joint à
eux: on avait quelques canons; il les charge, il les pointe, il les
tire l’un après l’autre. Les Anglais débarquent; il court à eux, il en
tue trois de sa main, il blesse même l’amiral, qui s’était moqué de
lui. Sa valeur anime le courage de toute la milice; les Anglais se
rembarquent, et toute la côte retentissait des cris de victoire, vive
le roi, vive l’Ingénu! Chacun l’embrassait, chacun s’empressait
d’étancher le sang de quelques blessures légères qu’il avait reçues.
Ah! disait-il, si mademoiselle de Saint-Yves était là, elle me mettrait
une compresse.

Le bailli, qui s’était caché dans sa cave pendant le combat, vint lui
faire compliment comme les autres. Mais il fut bien surpris quand il
entendit Hercule l’Ingénu dire à une douzaine de jeunes gens de bonne
volonté, dont il était entouré: Mes amis, ce n’est rien d’avoir délivré
l’abbaye de la Montagne, il faut délivrer une fille. Toute cette
bouillante jeunesse prit feu à ces seules paroles. On le suivait déjà
en foule, on courait au couvent. Si le bailli n’avait pas sur-le-champ
averti le commandant, si on n’avait pas couru après la troupe joyeuse,
c’en était fait. On ramena l’Ingénu chez son oncle et sa tante, qui le
baignèrent de larmes de tendresse.

Je vois bien que vous ne serez jamais ni sous-diacre ni prieur, lui dit
l’oncle; vous serez un officier encore plus brave que mon frère le
capitaine, et probablement aussi gueux. Et mademoiselle de Kerkabon
pleurait toujours en l’embrassant, et en disant: Il se fera tuer comme
mon frère; il vaudrait bien mieux qu’il fût sous-diacre.

L’Ingénu, dans le combat, avait ramassé une grosse bourse remplie de
guinées, que probablement l’amiral avait laissé tomber. Il ne douta pas
qu’avec cette bourse il ne pût acheter toute la Basse-Bretagne, et
surtout faire mademoiselle de Saint-Yves grande dame. Chacun l’exhorta
à faire le voyage de Versailles, pour y recevoir le prix de ses
services. Le commandant, les principaux officiers, le comblèrent de
certificats. L’oncle et la tante approuvèrent le voyage du neveu. Il
devait être, sans difficulté, présenté au roi: cela seul lui donnerait
un prodigieux relief dans la province. Ces deux bonnes gens ajoutèrent
à la bourse anglaise un présent considérable de leurs épargnes.
L’Ingénu disait en lui-même: Quand je verrai le roi, je lui demanderai
mademoiselle de Saint-Yves en mariage, et certainement il ne me
refusera pas. Il partit donc aux acclamations de tout le canton,
étouffé d’embrassements, baigné des larmes de sa tante, béni par son
oncle, et se recommandant à la belle Saint-Yves.

### Chapter VIII

L’Ingénu va en cour. Il soupe en chemin avec des huguenots.

L’Ingénu prit le chemin de Saumur par le coche, parcequ’il n’y avait
point alors d’autre commodité. Quand il fut à Saumur, il s’étonna de
trouver la ville presque déserte, et de voir plusieurs familles qui
déménageaient. On lui dit que, six ans auparavant, Saumur contenait
plus de quinze mille âmes, et qu’à présent il n’y en avait pas six
mille. Il ne manqua pas d’en parler à souper dans son hôtellerie.
Plusieurs protestants étaient à table; les uns se plaignaient
amèrement, d’autres frémissaient de colère, d’autres disaient en
pleurant,

«…… Nos dulcia linquimus arva,
Nos patriam fugimus.»

L’Ingénu, qui ne savait pas le latin, se fit expliquer ces paroles, qui
signifient: Nous abandonnons nos douces campagnes, nous fuyons notre
patrie.

Et pourquoi fuyez-vous votre patrie, messieurs?—C’est qu’on veut que
nous reconnaissions le pape.—Et pourquoi ne le reconnaîtriez-vous pas?
Vous n’avez donc point de marraines que vous vouliez épouser? car on
m’a dit que c’était lui qui en donnait la permission.—Ah! monsieur, ce
pape dit qu’il est le maître du domaine des rois.— Mais, messieurs, de
quelle profession êtes-vous? —Monsieur, nous sommes pour la plupart des
drapiers et des fabricants.—Si votre pape dit qu’il est le maître de
vos draps et de vos fabriques, vous faites très bien de ne le pas
reconnaître; mais pour les rois, c’est leur affaire; de quoi vous
mêlez-vous?—Alors un petit homme noir prit la parole, et exposa très
savamment les griefs de la compagnie. Il parla de la révocation de
l’édit de Nantes avec tant d’énergie, il déplora d’une manière si
pathétique le sort de cinquante mille familles fugitives et de
cinquante mille autres converties par les dragons, que l’Ingénu à son
tour versa des larmes. D’où vient donc, disait-il, qu’un si grand roi,
dont la gloire s’étend jusque chez les Hurons, se prive ainsi de tant
de coeurs qui l’auraient aimé, et de tant de bras qui l’auraient servi?

C’est qu’on l’a trompé comme les autres grands rois, répondit l’homme
noir. On lui a fait croire que, dès qu’il aurait dit un mot, tous les
hommes penseraient comme lui; et qu’il nous ferait changer de religion,
comme son musicien Lulli fait changer en un moment les décorations de
ses opéra. Non seulement il perd déjà cinq à six cent mille sujets très
utiles, mais il s’en fait des ennemis; et le roi Guillaume, qui est
actuellement maître de l’Angleterre, a composé plusieurs régiments de
ces mêmes Français qui auraient combattu pour leur monarque.

Un tel désastre est d’autant plus étonnant, que le pape régnant, à
qui Louis XIV sacrifie une partie de son peuple, est son ennemi
déclaré. Ils ont encore tous deux, depuis neuf ans, une querelle
violente. Elle a été poussée si loin, que la France a espéré enfin de
voir briser le joug qui la soumet depuis tant de siècles à cet
étranger, et surtout de ne lui plus donner d’argent; ce qui est le
premier mobile des affaires de ce monde. Il paraît donc évident qu’on a
trompé ce grand roi sur ses intérêts comme sur l’étendue de son
pouvoir, et qu’on a donné atteinte à la magnanimité de son coeur.

L’Ingénu, attendri de plus en plus, demanda quels étaient les Français
qui trompaient ainsi un monarque si cher aux Hurons. Ce sont les
jésuites, lui répondit-on; c’est surtout le P. de La Chaise, confesseur
de sa majesté. Il faut espérer que Dieu les en punira un jour, et
qu’ils seront chassés comme ils nous chassent. Y a-t-il un malheur égal
aux nôtres? Mons de Louvois nous envoie de tous côtés des jésuites et
des dragons.

Oh bien! messieurs, répliqua l’Ingénu, qui ne pouvait plus se contenir,
je vais à Versailles recevoir la récompense due à mes services; je
parlerai à ce mons de Louvois: on m’a dit que c’est lui qui fait la
guerre de son cabinet. Je verrai le roi, je lui ferai connaître la
vérité; il est impossible qu’on ne se rende pas à cette vérité quand on
la sent. Je reviendrai bientôt pour épouser mademoiselle de Saint-Yves,
et je vous prie à la noce. Ces bonnes gens le prirent alors pour un
grand seigneur qui voyageait *incognito* par le coche. Quelques uns le
prirent pour le fou du roi.

Il y avait à table un jésuite déguisé qui servait d’espion au révérend
P. de La Chaise. Il lui rendait compte de tout, et le P. de La Chaise
en instruisait mons de Louvois. L’espion écrivit. L’Ingénu et la lettre
arrivèrent presque en même temps à Versailles.

### Chapter IX

Arrivée de l’Ingénu à Versailles. Sa réception à la cour.

L’Ingénu débarque en pot-de-chambre[a] dans la cour des cuisines. Il
demande aux porteurs de chaise à quelle heure on peut voir le roi. Les
porteurs lui rient au nez, tout comme avait fait l’amiral anglais. Il
les traita de même, il les battit; ils voulurent le lui rendre, et la
scène allait être sanglante, s’il n’eût passé un garde du corps,
gentilhomme breton, qui écarta la canaille. Monsieur, lui dit le
voyageur, vous me paraissez un brave homme; je suis le neveu de
monsieur le prieur de Notre-Dame de la Montagne; j’ai tué des Anglais,
je viens parler au roi; je vous prie de me mener dans sa chambre. Le
garde, ravi de trouver un brave de sa province, qui ne paraissait pas
au fait des usages de la cour, lui apprit qu’on ne parlait pas ainsi au
roi, et qu’il fallait être présenté par monseigneur de Louvois.—Eh
bien! menez-moi donc chez ce monseigneur de Louvois, qui sans doute me
conduira chez sa majesté. Il est encore plus difficile, répliqua le
garde, de parler à monseigneur de Louvois qu’à sa majesté; mais je vais
vous conduire chez M. Alexandre, le premier commis de la guerre; c’est
comme si vous parliez au ministre. Ils vont donc chez ce M. Alexandre,
premier commis, et ils ne purent être introduits; il était en affaire
avec une dame de la cour, et il y avait ordre de ne laisser entrer
personne. Eh bien! dit le garde, il n’y a rien de perdu; allons chez le
premier commis de M. Alexandre; c’est comme si vous parliez à M.
Alexandre lui-même.

[a] C’est une voiture de Paris à Versailles, laquelle ressemble à un
petit tombereau couvert.

Le Huron tout étonné le suit; ils restent ensemble une demi-heure dans
une petite antichambre. Qu’est-ce donc que tout ceci? dit l’Ingénu;
est-ce que tout le monde est invisible dans ce pays-ci? il est bien
plus aisé de se battre en Basse-Bretagne contre des Anglais, que de
rencontrer à Versailles les gens à qui on a affaire. Il se désennuya en
racontant ses amours à son compatriote. Mais l’heure en sonnant rappela
le garde du corps à son poste. Ils se promirent de se revoir, le
lendemain, et l’Ingénu resta encore une autre demi-heure dans
l’antichambre, en rêvant à mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, et à la
difficulté de parler aux rois et aux premiers commis.

Enfin le patron parut. Monsieur, lui dit l’Ingénu, si j’avais attendu
pour repousser les Anglais aussi longtemps que vous m’avez fait
attendre mon audience, ils ravageraient actuellement la Basse-Bretagne
tout à leur aise. Ces paroles frappèrent le commis. Il dit enfin au
Breton: Que demandez-vous?—Récompense, dit l’autre; voici mes titres:
il lui étala tous ses certificats. Le commis lut, et lui dit que
probablement on lui accorderait la permission d’acheter une
lieutenance.—Moi! que je donne de l’argent pour avoir repoussé les
Anglais? que je paie le droit de me faire tuer pour vous, pendant que
vous donnez ici vos audiences tranquillement? je crois que vous voulez
rire. Je veux une compagnie de cavalerie pour rien; je veux que le roi
fasse sortir mademoiselle de Saint-Yves du couvent, et qu’il me la
donne par mariage; je veux parler au roi en faveur de cinquante mille
familles que je prétends lui rendre: en un mot je veux être utile;
qu’on m’emploie et qu’on m’avance.

Comment vous nommez-vous, monsieur, qui parlez si haut? Oh! oh! reprit
l’Ingénu, vous n’avez donc pas lu mes certificats? c’est donc ainsi
qu’on en use? Je m’appelle Hercule de Kerkabon; je suis baptisé, je
loge au Cadran bleu, et je me plaindrai de vous au roi. Le commis
conclut, comme les gens de Saumur, qu’il n’avait pas la tête bien
saine, et n’y fit pas grande attention.

Ce même jour, le révérend P. La Chaise, confesseur de Louis XIV, avait
reçu la lettre de son espion, qui accusait le breton Kerkabon de
favoriser dans son coeur les huguenots, et de condamner la conduite des
jésuites. M. de Louvois, de son côté, avait reçu une lettre de
l’interrogant bailli, qui dépeignait l’Ingénu comme un garnement qui
voulait brûler les couvents et enlever les filles.

L’Ingénu, après s’être promené dans les jardins de Versailles, où il
s’ennuya, après avoir soupé en Huron et en Bas-Breton, s’était couché
dans la douce espérance de voir le roi le lendemain, d’obtenir
mademoiselle de Saint-Yves en mariage; d’avoir au moins une compagnie
de cavalerie, et de faire cesser la persécution contre les huguenots.
Il se berçait de ces flatteuses idées, quand la maréchaussée entra dans
sa chambre. Elle se saisit d’abord de son fusil à deux coups et de son
grand sabre. On fit un inventaire de son argent comptant, et on le mena
dans le château que fit construire le roi Charles V, fils de Jean II,
auprès de la rue Saint-Antoine, à la porte des Tournelles.

Quel était en chemin l’étonnement de l’Ingénu! je vous le laisse à
penser. Il crut d’abord que c’était un rêve. Il resta dans
l’engourdissement, puis tout-à-coup transporté d’une fureur qui
redoublait ses forces, il prend à la gorge deux de ses conducteurs, qui
étaient avec lui dans le carrosse, les jette par la portière, se jette
après eux, et entraîne le troisième, qui voulait le retenir. Il tombe
de l’effort, on le lie, on le remonte dans la voiture. Voilà donc,
disait-il, ce que l’on gagne à chasser les Anglais de la
Basse-Bretagne! Que dirais-tu, belle Saint-Yves, si tu me voyais dans
cet état?

On arrive enfin au gîte qui lui était destiné. On le porte en silence
dans la chambre où il devait être enfermé, comme un mort qu’on porte
dans un cimetière. Cette chambre était déjà occupée par un vieux
solitaire de Port-Royal, nommé Gordon, qui y languissait depuis deux
ans. Tenez, lui dit le chef des sbires, voilà de la compagnie que je
vous amène; et sur-le-champ on referma les énormes verrous de la porte
épaisse, revêtue de larges barres. Les deux captifs restèrent séparés
de l’univers entier.

### Chapter X

L’Ingénu enfermé à la Bastille avec un janséniste.

M. Gordon était un vieillard frais et serein, qui savait deux grandes
choses: supporter l’adversité, et consoler les malheureux. Il s’avança
d’un air ouvert et compatissant vers son compagnon, et lui dit en
l’embrassant: Qui que vous soyez, qui venez partager mon tombeau, soyez
sûr que je m’oublierai toujours moi-même pour adoucir vos tourments
dans l’abîme infernal où nous sommes plongés. Adorons la Providence qui
nous y a conduits, souffrons en paix, et espérons. Ces paroles firent
sur l’âme de l’Ingénu l’effet des gouttes d’Angleterre, qui rappellent
un mourant à la vie, et lui font entr’ouvrir des yeux étonnés.

Après les premiers compliments, Gordon, sans le presser de lui
apprendre la cause de son malheur, lui inspira, par la douceur de son
entretien, et par cet intérêt que prennent deux malheureux l’un à
l’autre, le désir d’ouvrir son coeur et de déposer le fardeau qui
l’accablait; mais il ne pouvait deviner le sujet de son malheur; cela
lui paraissait un effet sans cause; et le bon-homme Gordon était aussi
étonné que lui-même.

Il faut, dit le janséniste au Huron, que Dieu ait de grands desseins
sur vous, puisqu’il vous a conduit du lac Ontario en Angleterre et en
France, qu’il vous a fait baptiser en Basse-Bretagne, et qu’il vous a
mis ici pour votre salut. Ma foi, répondit l’Ingénu, je crois que le
diable s’est mêlé seul de ma destinée. Mes compatriotes d’Amérique ne
m’auraient jamais traité avec la barbarie que j’éprouve; ils n’en ont
pas d’idée. On les appelle *sauvages*; ce sont des gens de bien
grossiers, et les hommes de ce pays-ci sont des coquins raffinés. Je
suis, à la vérité, bien surpris d’être venu d’un autre monde pour être
enfermé dans celui-ci sous quatre verrous avec un prêtre; mais je fais
réflexion au nombre prodigieux d’hommes qui partent d’un hémisphère
pour aller se faire tuer dans l’autre, ou qui font naufrage en chemin,
et qui sont mangés des poissons: je ne vois pas les gracieux desseins
de Dieu sur tous ces gens-là.

On leur apporta à dîner par un guichet. La conversation roula sur la
Providence, sur les lettres de cachet, et sur l’art de ne pas succomber
aux disgrâces auxquelles tout homme est exposé dans ce monde. Il y a
deux ans que je suis ici, dit le vieillard, sans autre consolation que
moi-même et des livres; je n’ai pas eu un moment de mauvaise humeur.

Ah! M. Gordon, s’écria l’Ingénu, vous n’aimez donc pas votre marraine?
Si vous connaissiez comme moi mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, vous seriez
au désespoir. A ces mots il ne put retenir ses larmes, et il se sentit
alors un peu moins oppressé. Mais, dit-il, pourquoi donc les larmes
soulagent-elles? Il me semble qu’elles devraient faire un effet
contraire.—Mon fils, tout est physique en nous, dit le bon vieillard;
toute sécrétion fait du bien au corps; et tout ce qui le soulage
soulage l’âme: nous sommes les machines de la Providence.

L’Ingénu, qui, comme nous l’avons dit plusieurs fois, avait un grand
fonds d’esprit, fit de profondes réflexions sur cette idée, dont il
semblait qu’il avait la semence en lui-même. Après quoi il demanda à
son compagnon pourquoi sa machine était depuis deux ans sous quatre
verrous. Par la grâce efficace, répondit Gordon: je passe pour
janséniste; j’ai connu Arnauld et Nicole; les jésuites nous ont
persécutés. Nous croyons que le pape n’est qu’un évêque comme un autre;
et c’est pour cela que le P. de La Chaise a obtenu du roi, son
pénitent, un ordre de me ravir, sans aucune formalité de justice, le
bien le plus précieux des hommes, la liberté. Voilà qui est bien
étrange, dit l’Ingénu; tous les malheureux que j’ai rencontrés ne le
sont qu’à cause du pape.

A l’égard de votre grâce efficace, je vous avoue que je n’y entends
rien; mais je regarde comme une grande grâce que Dieu m’ait fait
trouver dans mon malheur un homme comme vous, qui verse dans mon coeur
des consolations dont je me croyais incapable.

Chaque jour la conversation devenait plus intéressante et plus
instructive. Les âmes des deux captifs s’attachaient l’une à l’autre.
Le vieillard savait beaucoup, et le jeune homme voulait beaucoup
apprendre. Au bout d’un mois il étudia la géométrie; il la dévorait.
Gordon lui fit lire la physique de Rohault, qui était encore à la mode,
et il eut le bon esprit de n’y trouver que des incertitudes.

Ensuite il lut le premier volume de la *Recherche de la vérité*. Cette
nouvelle lumière l’éclaira. Quoi! dit-il, notre imagination et nos sens
nous trompent à ce point! quoi! les objets ne forment point nos idées,
et nous ne pouvons nous les donner nous-mêmes! Quand il eut lu le
second volume, il ne fut plus si content, et il conclut qu’il est plus
aisé de détruire que de bâtir.

Son confrère, étonné qu’un jeune ignorant fît cette réflexion, qui
n’appartient qu’aux âmes exercées, conçut une grande idée de son
esprit, et s’attacha à lui davantage.

Votre Malebranche, lui dit un jour l’Ingénu, me paraît avoir écrit la
moitié de son livre avec sa raison, et l’autre avec son imagination et
ses préjugés.

Quelques jours après, Gordon lui demanda: Que pensez-vous donc de
l’âme, de la manière dont nous recevons nos idées, de notre volonté, de
la grâce, du libre arbitre? Rien, lui repartit l’Ingénu: si je pensais
quelque chose, c’est que nous sommes sous la puissance de l’Etre
éternel, comme les astres et les éléments; qu’il fait tout en nous, que
nous sommes de petites roues de la machine immense dont il est l’âme;
qu’il agit par des lois générales, et non par des vues particulières;
cela seul me paraît intelligible; tout le reste est pour moi un abîme
de ténèbres.

Mais, mon fils, ce serait faire Dieu auteur du péché.—Mais, mon père,
votre grâce efficace ferait Dieu auteur du péché aussi; car il est
certain que tous ceux à qui cette grâce serait refusée pécheraient; et
qui nous livre au mal n’est-il pas l’auteur du mal?

Cette naïveté embarrassait fort le bon-homme; il sentait qu’il fesait
de vains efforts pour se tirer de ce bourbier; et il entassait tant de
paroles qui paraissaient avoir du sens et qui n’en avaient point (dans
le goût de la prémotion physique), que l’Ingénu en avait pitié. Cette
question tenait évidemment à l’origine du bien et du mal; et alors il
fallait que le pauvre Gordon passât en revue la boîte de Pandore,
l’oeuf d’Orosmade percé par Arimane, l’inimitié entre Typhon et
Osiris, et enfin le péché originel; et ils couraient l’un et l’autre
dans cette nuit profonde, sans jamais se rencontrer. Mais enfin ce
roman de l’âme détournait leur vue de la contemplation de leur propre
misère, et, par un charme étrange, la foule des calamités répandues sur
l’univers diminuait la sensation de leurs peines; ils n’osaient se
plaindre quand tout souffrait.

Mais, dans le repos de la nuit, l’image de la belle Saint-Yves effaçait
dans l’esprit de son amant toutes les idées de métaphysique et de
morale. Il se réveillait les yeux mouillés de larmes; et le vieux
janséniste oubliait sa grâce efficace, et l’abbé de Saint-Cyran, et
Jansénius, pour consoler un jeune homme qu’il croyait en péché mortel.

Après leurs lectures, après leurs raisonnements, ils parlaient encore
de leurs aventures; et, après en avoir inutilement parlé, ils lisaient
ensemble ou séparément. L’esprit du jeune homme se fortifiait de plus
en plus. Il serait surtout allé très loin en mathématiques sans les
distractions que lui donnait mademoiselle de Saint-Yves.

Il lut des histoires, elles l’attristèrent. Le monde lui parut trop
méchant et trop misérable. En effet l’histoire n’est que le tableau des
crimes et des malheurs. La foule des hommes innocents et paisibles
disparaît toujours sur ces vastes théâtres. Les personnages ne sont que
des ambitieux pervers. Il semble que l’histoire ne plaise que comme la
tragédie, qui languit si elle n’est animée par les passions, les
forfaits, et les grandes infortunes. Il faut armer Clio du poignard,
comme Melpomène.

Quoique l’histoire de France soit remplie d’horreurs, ainsi que toutes
les autres, cependant elle lui parut si dégoûtante dans ses
commencements, si sèche dans son milieu, si petite enfin, même du temps
de Henri IV, toujours si dépourvue de grands monuments, si étrangère à
ces belles découvertes qui ont illustré d’autres nations, qu’il était
obligé de lutter contre l’ennui pour lire tous ces détails de calamités
obscures resserrées dans un coin du monde.

Gordon pensait comme lui. Tous deux riaient de pitié quand il était
question des souverains de Fezensac, de Fesansaguet, et d’Astarac.
Cette étude en effet ne serait bonne que pour leurs héritiers, s’ils en
avaient. Les beaux siècles de la république romaine le rendirent
quelque temps indifférent pour le reste de la terre. Le spectacle de
Rome victorieuse et législatrice des nations occupait son âme entière.
Il s’échauffait en contemplant ce peuple qui fut gouverné sept cents
ans par l’enthousiasme de la liberté et de la gloire.

Ainsi se passaient les jours, les semaines, les mois; et il se serait
cru heureux dans le séjour du désespoir, s’il n’avait point aimé.

Son bon naturel s’attendrissait encore sur le prieur de Notre-Dame de
la Montagne, et sur la sensible Kerkabon. Que penseront-ils,
répétait-il souvent, quand ils n’auront point de mes nouvelles? Ils me
croiront un ingrat. Cette idée le tourmentait; il plaignait ceux qui
l’aimaient, beaucoup plus qu’il ne se plaignait lui-même.

### Chapter XI

Comment l’Ingénu développe son génie.

La lecture agrandit l’âme, et un ami éclairé la console. Notre captif
jouissait de ces deux avantages qu’il n’avait pas soupçonnés
auparavant. Je serais tenté, dit-il, de croire aux métamorphoses, car
j’ai été changé de brute en homme. Il se forma une bibliothèque choisie
d’une partie de son argent dont on lui permettait de disposer. Son ami
l’encouragea à mettre par écrit ses réflexions. Voici ce qu’il écrivit
sur l’histoire ancienne:

«Je m’imagine que les nations ont été long-temps comme moi, qu’elles ne
se sont instruites que fort tard, qu’elles n’ont été occupées pendant
des siècles que du moment présent qui coulait, très peu du passé, et
jamais de l’avenir. J’ai parcouru cinq ou six cents lieues du Canada,
je n’y ai pas trouvé un seul monument; personne n’y sait rien de ce
qu’a fait son bisaïeul. Ne serait-ce pas là l’état naturel de l’homme?
L’espèce de ce continent-ci me paraît supérieure à celle de l’autre.
Elle a augmenté son être depuis plusieurs siècles par les arts et par
les connaissances. Est-ce parcequ’elle a de la barbe au menton, et que
Dieu a refusé la barbe aux Américains? Je ne le crois pas; car je vois
que les Chinois n’ont presque point de barbe, et qu’ils cultivent les
arts depuis plus de cinq mille années. En effet, s’ils ont plus de
quatre mille ans d’annales, il faut bien que la nation ait été
rassemblée et florissante depuis plus de cinquante siècles.

«Une chose me frappe surtout dans cette ancienne histoire de la Chine,
c’est que presque tout y est vraisemblable et naturel. Je l’admire en
ce qu’il n’y a rien de merveilleux.

«Pourquoi toutes les autres nations se sont-elles donné des origines
fabuleuses? Les anciens chroniqueurs de l’histoire de France, qui ne
sont pas fort anciens, font venir les Français d’un Francus, fils
d’Hector: les Romains se disaient issus d’un Phrygien, quoiqu’il n’y
eût pas dans leur langue un seul mot qui eût le moindre rapport à la
langue de Phrygie: les dieux avaient habité dix mille ans en Egypte, et
les diables, en Scythie, où ils avaient engendré les Huns. Je ne vois
avant Thucydide que des romans semblables aux Amadis, et beaucoup moins
amusants. Ce sont partout des apparitions, des oracles, des prodiges,
des sortilèges, des métamorphoses, des songes expliqués, et qui font la
destinée des plus grands empires et des plus petits états: ici des
bêtes qui parlent, là des bêtes qu’on adore, des dieux transformés en
hommes, et des hommes transformés en dieux. Ah! s’il nous faut des
fables, que ces fables soient du moins l’emblème de la vérité! J’aime
les fables des philosophes, je ris de celles des enfants, et je hais
celles des imposteurs.»

Il tomba un jour sur une histoire de l’empereur Justinien. On y lisait
que des apédeutes de Constantinople avaient donné, en très mauvais
grec, un édit contre le plus grand capitaine du siècle, parceque ce
héros avait prononcé ces paroles dans la chaleur de la conversation:
«La vérité luit de sa propre lumière, et on n’éclaire pas les esprits
avec les flammes des bûchers.» Les apédeutes assurèrent que cette
proposition était hérétique, sentant l’hérésie, et que l’axiome
contraire était catholique, universel, et grec: « On n’éclaire les
esprits qu’avec la flamme des bûchers, et la vérité ne saurait luire de
sa propre lumière.» Ces linostoles condamnèrent ainsi plusieurs
discours du capitaine, et donnèrent un édit.

Quoi! s’écria l’Ingénu, des édits rendus par ces gens-là! Ce ne sont
point des édits, répliqua Gordon, ce sont des contr’édits dont tout
le monde se moquait à Constantinople, et l’empereur tout le premier;
c’était un sage prince, qui avait su réduire les apédeutes linostoles à
ne pouvoir faire que du bien. Il savait que ces messieurs-là et
plusieurs autres pastophores avaient lassé de contr’édits la
patience des empereurs ses prédécesseurs en matière plus grave. Il fit
fort bien, dit l’Ingénu; on doit soutenir les pastophores et les
contenir.

Il mit par écrit beaucoup d’autres réflexions qui épouvantèrent le
vieux Gordon. Quoi! dit-il en lui-même, j’ai consumé cinquante ans à
m’instruire, et je crains de ne pouvoir atteindre au bon sens naturel
de cet enfant presque sauvage! je tremble d’avoir laborieusement
fortifié des préjugés; il n’écoute que la simple nature.

Le bon-homme avait quelques uns de ces petits livres de critique, de
ces brochures périodiques où des hommes incapables de rien produire
dénigrent les productions des autres, où les Visé insultent aux Racine,
et les Faydit aux Fénelon. L’Ingénu en parcourut quelques uns. Je les
compare, disait-il, à certains moucherons qui vont déposer leurs oeufs
dans le derrière des plus beaux chevaux: cela ne les empêche pas de
courir. A peine les deux philosophes daignèrent-ils jeter les yeux sur
ces excréments de la littérature.

Ils lurent bientôt ensemble les éléments de l’astronomie; l’Ingénu fit
venir des sphères: ce grand spectacle le ravissait. Qu’il est dur,
disait-il, de ne commencer à connaître le ciel que lorsqu’on me ravit
le droit de le contempler! Jupiter et Saturne roulent dans ces espaces
immenses; des millions de soleils éclairent des milliards de mondes; et
dans le coin de terre où je suis jeté, il se trouve des êtres qui me
privent, moi être voyant et pensant, de tous ces mondes où ma vue
pourrait atteindre, et de celui où Dieu m’a fait naître! La lumière
faite pour tout l’univers est perdue pour moi. On ne me la cachait pas
dans l’horizon septentrional où j’ai passé mon enfance et ma jeunesse.
Sans vous, mon cher Gordon, je serais ici dans le néant.

### Chapter XII

Ce que l’Ingénu pense des pièces de théâtre.

Le jeune Ingénu ressemblait à un de ces arbres vigoureux qui, nés dans
un sol ingrat, étendent en peu de temps leurs racines et leurs branches
quand ils sont transplantés dans un terrain favorable; et il était bien
extraordinaire qu’une prison fût ce terrain.

Parmi les livres qui occupaient le loisir des deux captifs, il se
trouva des poésies, des traductions de tragédies grecques, quelques
pièces du théâtre français. Les vers qui parlaient d’amour portèrent
à-la-fois dans l’âme de l’Ingénu le plaisir et la douleur. Ils lui
parlaient tous de sa chère Saint-Yves. La fable des deux Pigeons lui
perça le coeur; il était bien loin de pouvoir revenir à son colombier.

Molière l’enchanta. Il lui fesait connaître les moeurs de Paris et du
genre humain.—A laquelle de ses comédies donnez-vous la préférence?—Au
*Tartufe*, sans difficulté. Je pense comme vous, dit Gordon; c’est un
tartufe qui m’a plongé dans ce cachot, et peut-être ce sont des
tartufes qui ont fait votre malheur.

Comment trouvez-vous ces tragédies grecques?—Bonnes pour des Grecs, dit
l’Ingénu. Mais quand il lut l’*Iphigénie* moderne, *Phèdre*,
*Andromaque*, *Athalie*, il fut en extase, il soupira, il versa des
larmes, il les sut par coeur sans avoir envie de les apprendre.

Lisez *Rodogune*, lui dit Gordon; on dit que c’est le chef-d’oeuvre du
théâtre; les autres pièces qui vous ont fait tant de plaisir sont peu
de chose en comparaison. Le jeune homme, dès la première page, lui dit:
Cela n’est pas du même auteur.—A quoi le voyez-vous?—Je n’en sais rien
encore; mais ces vers-là ne vont ni à mon oreille ni à mon coeur.—Oh!
ce n’est rien que les vers, répliqua Gordon. L’Ingénu répondit:
Pourquoi donc en faire?

Après avoir lu très attentivement la pièce, sans autre dessein que
celui d’avoir du plaisir, il regardait son ami avec des yeux secs et
étonnés, et ne savait que dire. Enfin, pressé de rendre compte de ce
qu’il avait senti, voici ce qu’il répondit: Je n’ai guère entendu le
commencement; j’ai été révolté du milieu; la dernière scène m’a
beaucoup ému, quoiqu’elle me paraisse peu vraisemblable: je ne me suis
intéressé pour personne, et je n’ai pas retenu vingt vers, moi qui les
retiens tous quand ils me plaisent.

Cette pièce passe pourtant pour la meilleure que nous ayons.—Si cela
est, répliqua-t-il, elle est peut-être comme bien des gens qui ne
méritent pas leurs places. Après tout, c’est ici une affaire de goût;
le mien ne doit pas encore être formé: je peux me tromper; mais vous
savez que je suis assez accoutumé à dire ce que je pense, ou plutôt ce
que je sens. Je soupçonne qu’il y a souvent de l’illusion, de la mode,
du caprice dans les jugements des hommes. J’ai parlé d’après la nature;
il se peut que chez moi la nature soit très imparfaite; mais il se peut
aussi qu’elle soit quelquefois peu consultée par la plupart des hommes.
Alors il récita des vers d’*Iphigénie*, dont il était plein; et
quoiqu’il ne déclamât pas bien, il y mit tant de vérité et d’onction,
qu’il fit pleurer le vieux janséniste. Il lut ensuite *Cinna*; il ne
pleura point, mais il admira.

### Chapter XIII

La belle Saint-Yves va à Versailles.

Pendant que notre infortuné s’éclairait plus qu’il ne se consolait;
pendant que son génie, étouffé depuis si long-temps, se déployait avec
tant de rapidité et de force; pendant que la nature, qui se
perfectionnait en lui, le vengeait des outrages de la fortune, que
devinrent monsieur le prieur et sa bonne soeur, et la belle recluse
Saint-Yves? Le premier mois on fut inquiet, et au troisième on fut
plongé dans la douleur; les fausses conjectures, les bruits mal fondés,
alarmèrent: au bout de six mois on le crut mort. Enfin monsieur et
mademoiselle de Kerkabon apprirent, par une ancienne lettre qu’un garde
du roi avait écrite en Bretagne, qu’un jeune homme semblable à l’Ingénu
était arrivé un soir à Versailles, mais qu’il avait été enlevé pendant
la nuit, et que depuis ce temps personne n’en avait entendu parler.

Hélas! dit mademoiselle de Kerkabon, notre neveu aura fait quelque
sottise, et se sera attiré de fâcheuses affaires. Il est jeune, il est
Bas-Breton, il ne peut savoir comme on doit se comporter à la cour. Mon
cher frère, je n’ai jamais vu Versailles ni Paris; voici une belle
occasion, nous retrouverons peut-être notre pauvre neveu: c’est le fils
de notre frère; notre devoir est de le secourir. Qui sait si nous ne
pourrons point parvenir enfin à le faire sous-diacre, quand la fougue
de la jeunesse sera amortie? Il avait beaucoup de dispositions pour les
sciences. Vous souvenez-vous comme il raisonnait sur l’ancien et sur le
nouveau *Testament*? Nous sommes responsables de son âme; c’est nous
qui l’avons fait baptiser; sa chère maîtresse Saint-Yves passe les
journées à pleurer. En vérité il faut aller à Paris. S’il est caché
dans quelqu’une de ces vilaines maisons de joie dont on m’a fait tant
de récits, nous l’en tirerons. Le prieur fut touché des discours de sa
soeur. Il alla trouver l’évêque de Saint-Malo, qui avait baptisé le
Huron, et lui demanda sa protection et ses conseils. Le prélat approuva
le voyage. Il donna au prieur des lettres de recommandation pour le P.
de La Chaise, confesseur du roi, qui avait la première dignité du
royaume, pour l’archevêque de Paris, Harlay, et pour l’évêque de Meaux,
Bossuet.

Enfin le frère et la soeur partirent; mais, quand ils furent arrivés à
Paris, ils se trouvèrent égarés comme dans un vaste labyrinthe, sans
fil et sans issue. Leur fortune était médiocre, et il leur fallait tous
les jours des voitures pour aller à la découverte, et ils ne
découvraient rien.

Le prieur se présenta chez le révérend P. de La Chaise; il était avec
mademoiselle Du Tron, et ne pouvait donner audience à des prieurs. Il
alla à la porte de l’archevêque; le prélat était enfermé avec la
belle madame de Lesdiguières pour les affaires de l’Eglise. Il courut à
la maison de campagne de l’évêque de Meaux; celui-ci examinait, avec
mademoiselle de Mauléon, l’amour mystique de madame Guyon. Cependant il
parvint à se faire entendre de ces deux prélats; tous deux lui
déclarèrent qu’ils ne pouvaient se mêler de son neveu, attendu qu’il
n’était pas sous-diacre.

Enfin il vit le jésuite; celui-ci le reçut à bras ouverts, lui protesta
qu’il avait toujours eu pour lui une estime particulière, ne l’ayant
jamais connu. Il jura que la Société avait toujours été attachée aux
Bas-Bretons. Mais, dit-il, votre neveu n’aurait-il pas le malheur
d’être huguenot?—Non, assurément, mon révérend père.—Serait-il point
janséniste?—Je puis assurer à votre révérence qu’à peine est-il
chrétien: il y a environ onze mois que nous l’avons baptisé.—Voilà qui
est bien, voilà qui est bien, nous aurons soin de lui. Votre bénéfice
est-il considérable?—Oh! fort peu de chose, et mon neveu nous coûte
beaucoup.—Y a-t-il quelques jansénistes dans le voisinage? Prenez bien
garde, mon cher monsieur le prieur, ils sont plus dangereux que les
huguenots et les athées.—Mon révérend père, nous n’en avons point; on
ne sait ce que c’est que le jansénisme à Notre-Dame de la
Montagne.—Tant mieux; allez, il n’y a rien que je ne fasse pour vous.
Il congédia affectueusement le prieur, et n’y pensa plus.

Le temps s’écoulait, le prieur et la bonne soeur se désespéraient.

Cependant le maudit bailli pressait le mariage de son grand benêt de
fils avec la belle Saint-Yves, qu’on avait fait sortir exprès du
couvent. Elle aimait toujours son cher filleul autant qu’elle détestait
le mari qu’on lui présentait. L’affront d’avoir été mise dans un
couvent augmentait sa passion; l’ordre d’épouser le fils du bailli y
mettait le comble. Les regrets, la tendresse, et l’horreur,
bouleversaient son âme. L’amour, comme on sait, est bien plus ingénieux
et plus hardi dans une jeune fille, que l’amitié ne l’est dans un vieux
prieur et dans une tante de quarante-cinq ans passés. De plus, elle
s’était bien formée dans son couvent par les romans qu’elle avait lus à
la dérobée. La belle Saint-Yves se souvenait de la lettre qu’un garde
du corps avait écrite en Basse-Bretagne, et dont on avait parlé dans la
province. Elle résolut d’aller elle-même prendre des informations à
Versailles; de se jeter aux pieds des ministres, si son mari était en
prison, comme on le disait, et d’obtenir justice pour lui. Je ne sais
quoi l’avertissait secrètement qu’à la cour on ne refuse rien à une
jolie fille; mais elle ne savait pas ce qu’il en coûtait.

Sa résolution prise, elle est consolée, elle est tranquille, elle ne
rebute plus son sot prétendu; elle accueille le détestable beau-père,
caresse son frère, répand l’allégresse dans la maison; puis, le jour
destiné à la cérémonie, elle part secrètement à quatre heures du matin
avec ses petits présents de noce, et tout ce qu’elle a pu rassembler.
Ses mesures étaient si bien prises, qu’elle était déjà à plus de dix
lieues lorsqu’on entra dans sa chambre, vers le midi. La surprise et la
consternation furent grandes. L’interrogant bailli fit ce jour-là plus
de questions qu’il n’en avait fait dans toute la semaine; le mari resta
plus sot qu’il ne l’avait jamais été. L’abbé de Saint-Yves en colère
prit le parti de courir après sa soeur. Le bailli et son fils voulurent
l’accompagner. Ainsi la destinée conduisait à Paris presque tout ce
canton de la Basse-Bretagne.

La belle Saint-Yves se doutait bien qu’on la suivrait. Elle était à
cheval; elle s’informait adroitement des courriers s’ils n’avaient
point rencontré un gros abbé, un énorme bailli, et un jeune benêt, qui
couraient sur le chemin de Paris. Ayant appris au troisième jour qu’ils
n’étaient pas loin, elle prit une route différente, et eut assez
d’habileté et de bonheur pour arriver à Versailles, tandis qu’on la
cherchait inutilement dans Paris.

Mais comment se conduire à Versailles? jeune, belle, sans conseil, sans
appui, inconnue, exposée à tout, comment oser chercher un garde du roi?
Elle imagina de s’adresser à un jésuite du bas étage; il y en avait
pour toutes les conditions de la vie: comme Dieu, disaient-ils, a donné
différentes nourritures aux diverses espèces d’animaux, il avait donné
au roi son confesseur, que tous les solliciteurs de bénéfices
appelaient *le chef de l’Église gallicane*; ensuite venaient les
confesseurs des princesses; les ministres n’en avaient point; ils
n’étaient pas si sots. Il y avait les jésuites du grand commun, et
surtout les jésuites des femmes de chambre par lesquelles on savait les
secrets des maîtresses; et ce n’était pas un petit emploi. La belle
Saint-Yves s’adressa à un de ces derniers, qui s’appelait le P.
Tout-à-tous. Elle se confessa à lui, lui exposa ses aventures, son
état, son danger, et le conjura de la loger chez quelque bonne dévote
qui la mît à l’abri des tentations.

Le P. Tout-à-tous l’introduisit chez la femme d’un officier du gobelet,
l’une de ses plus affidées pénitentes. Dès qu’elle y fut, elle
s’empressa de gagner la confiance et l’amitié de cette femme; elle
s’informa du garde breton, et le fit prier de venir chez elle. Ayant su
de lui que son amant avait été enlevé après avoir parlé à un premier
commis, elle court chez ce commis: la vue d’une belle femme l’adoucit,
car il faut convenir que Dieu n’a créé les femmes que pour apprivoiser
les hommes.

Le plumitif attendri lui avoua tout. Votre amant est à la Bastille
depuis près d’un an, et sans vous il y serait peut-être toute sa vie.
La tendre Saint-Yves s’évanouit. Quand elle eut repris ses sens, le
plumitif lui dit: Je suis sans crédit pour faire du bien; tout mon
pouvoir se borne à faire du mal quelquefois. Croyez-moi, allez chez M.
de Saint-Pouange, qui fait le bien et le mal, cousin et favori de
monseigneur de Louvois. Ce ministre a deux âmes: M. de Saint-Pouange en
est une; madame Dufresnoy, l’autre; mais elle n’est pas à présent à
Versailles; il ne vous reste que de fléchir le protecteur que je vous
indique. La belle Saint-Yves, partagée entre un peu de joie et
d’extrêmes douleurs, entre quelque espérance et de tristes craintes,
poursuivie par son frère, adorant son amant, essuyant ses larmes et en
versant encore, tremblante, affaiblie, et reprenant courage, courut
vite chez M. de Saint-Pouange.

### Chapter XIV

Progrès de l’esprit de l’Ingénu.

L’Ingénu fesait des progrès rapides dans les sciences, et surtout dans
la science de l’homme. La cause du développement rapide de son esprit
était due à son éducation sauvage presque autant qu’à la trempe de son
âme; car, n’ayant rien appris dans son enfance, il n’avait point appris
de préjugés. Son entendement n’ayant point été courbé par l’erreur
était demeuré dans toute sa rectitude. Il voyait les choses comme elles
sont, au lieu que les idées qu’on nous donne dans l’enfance nous les
font voir toute notre vie comme elles ne sont point. Vos persécuteurs
sont abominables, disait-il à son ami Gordon. Je vous plains d’être
opprimé, mais je vous plains d’être janséniste. Toute secte me paraît
le ralliement de l’erreur. Dites-moi s’il y a des sectes en géométrie?
Non, mon cher enfant, lui dit en soupirant le bon Gordon; tous les
hommes sont d’accord sur la vérité quand elle est démontrée, mais ils
sont trop partagés sur les vérités obscures.—Dites sur les faussetés
obscures. S’il y avait eu une seule vérité cachée dans vos amas
d’arguments qu’on ressasse depuis tant de siècles, on l’aurait
découverte sans doute; et l’univers aurait été d’accord au moins sur ce
point-là. Si cette vérité était nécessaire comme le soleil l’est à la
terre, elle serait brillante comme lui. C’est une absurdité, c’est un
outrage au genre humain, c’est un attentat contre l’Être infini et
suprême de dire: il y a une vérité essentielle à l’homme, et Dieu l’a
cachée. Tout ce que disait ce jeune ignorant, instruit par la nature,
fesait une impression profonde sur l’esprit du vieux savant infortuné.
Serait-il bien vrai, s’écria-t-il, que je me fusse rendu malheureux pour
des chimères? Je suis bien plus sûr de mon malheur que de la grâce
efficace. J’ai consumé mes jours à raisonner sur la liberté de Dieu et
du genre humain; mais j’ai perdu la mienne; ni saint Augustin ni saint
Prosper ne me tireront de l’abîme où je suis.

L’Ingénu, livré à son caractère, dit enfin: Voulez-vous que je vous
parle avec une confiance hardie? Ceux qui se font persécuter pour ces
vaines disputes de l’école me semblent peu sages; ceux qui persécutent
me paraissent des monstres.

Les deux captifs étaient fort d’accord sur l’injustice de leur
captivité. Je suis cent fois plus à plaindre que vous, disait l’Ingénu;
je suis né libre comme l’air; j’avais deux vies, la liberté et l’objet
de mon amour: on me les ôte. Nous voici tous deux dans les fers, sans
savoir la raison et sans pouvoir la demander. J’ai vécu Huron vingt
ans; on dit que ce sont des barbares, parcequ’ils se vengent de leurs
ennemis; mais ils n’ont jamais opprimé leurs amis. A peine ai-je mis le
pied en France, que j’ai versé mon sang pour elle; j’ai peut-être sauvé
une province, et pour récompense je suis englouti dans ce tombeau des
vivants, où je serais mort de rage sans vous. Il n’y a donc point de
lois dans ce pays? on condamne les hommes sans les entendre! Il n’en
est pas ainsi en Angleterre. Ah! ce n’était pas contre les Anglais que
je devais me battre. Ainsi sa philosophie naissante ne pouvait dompter
la nature outragée dans le premier de ses droits, et laissait un libre
cours à sa juste colère.

Son compagnon ne le contredit point. L’absence augmente toujours
l’amour qui n’est pas satisfait, et la philosophie ne le diminue pas.
Il parlait aussi souvent de sa chère Saint-Yves que de morale et de
métaphysique. Plus ses sentiments s’épuraient, et plus il aimait. Il
lut quelques romans nouveaux; il en trouva peu qui lui peignissent la
situation de son âme. Il sentait que son coeur allait toujours au-delà
de ce qu’il lisait. Ah! disait-il, presque tous ces auteurs-là n’ont
que de l’esprit et de l’art. Enfin le bon prêtre janséniste devenait
insensiblement le confident de sa tendresse. Il ne connaissait l’amour
auparavant que comme un péché dont on s’accuse en confession. Il apprit
à le connaître comme un sentiment aussi noble que tendre, qui peut
élever l’âme autant que l’amollir, et produire même quelquefois des
vertus. Enfin, pour dernier prodige, un Huron convertissait un
janséniste.

### Chapter XV

La belle Saint-Yves résiste à des propositions délicates.

La belle Saint-Yves, plus tendre encore que son amant, alla donc chez
M. de Saint-Pouange, accompagnée de l’amie chez qui elle logeait,
toutes deux cachées dans leurs coiffes. La première chose qu’elle vit à
la porte ce fut l’abbé de Saint-Yves, son frère, qui en sortait. Elle
fut intimidée; mais la dévote amie la rassura. C’est précisément
parcequ’on a parlé contre vous qu’il faut que vous parliez. Soyez sûre
que dans ce pays les accusateurs ont toujours raison, si on ne se hâte
de les confondre. Votre présence d’ailleurs, ou je me trompe fort, fera
plus d’effet que les paroles de votre frère.

Pour peu qu’on encourage une amante passionnée, elle est intrépide. La
Saint-Yves se présente à l’audience. Sa jeunesse, ses charmes, ses yeux
tendres mouillés de quelques pleurs, attirèrent tous les regards.
Chaque courtisan du sous-ministre oublia un moment l’idole du pouvoir
pour contempler celle de la beauté. Le Saint-Pouange la fit entrer dans
un cabinet; elle parla avec attendrissement et avec grâce.
Saint-Pouange se sentit touché. Elle tremblait, il la rassura. Revenez
ce soir, lui dit-il; vos affaires méritent qu’on y pense et qu’on en
parle à loisir; il y a ici trop de monde; on expédie les audiences trop
rapidement: il faut que je vous entretienne à fond de tout ce qui vous
regarde. Ensuite, ayant fait l’éloge de sa beauté et de ses sentiments,
il lui recommanda de venir à sept heures du soir.

Elle n’y manqua pas; la dévote amie l’accompagna encore, mais elle se
tint dans le salon, et lut le *Pédagogue chrétien*, pendant que le
Saint-Pouange et la belle Saint-Yves étaient dans l’arrière-cabinet.
Croiriez-vous bien, mademoiselle, lui dit-il d’abord, que votre frère
est venu me demander une lettre de cachet contre vous? En vérité j’en
expédierais plutôt une pour le renvoyer en Basse-Bretagne.—Hélas!
monsieur, on est donc bien libéral de lettres de cachet dans vos
bureaux, puisqu’on en vient solliciter du fond du royaume, comme des
pensions. Je suis bien loin d’en demander une contre mon frère. J’ai
beaucoup à me plaindre de lui, mais je respecte la liberté des hommes;
je demande celle d’un homme que je veux épouser, d’un homme à qui le
roi doit la conservation d’une province, qui peut le servir utilement,
et qui est le fils d’un officier tué à son service. De quoi est-il
accusé? comment a-t-on pu le traiter si cruellement sans l’entendre?

Alors le sous-ministre lui montra la lettre du jésuite espion et celle
du perfide bailli.—Quoi! il y a de pareils monstres sur la terre! et on
veut me forcer ainsi à épouser le fils ridicule d’un homme ridicule et
méchant! et c’est sur de pareils avis qu’on décide ici de la destinée
des citoyens! Elle se jeta à genoux, elle demanda avec des sanglots la
liberté du brave homme qui l’adorait. Ses charmes en cet état parurent
dans leur plus grand avantage. Elle était si belle, que le
Saint-Pouange, perdant toute honte, lui insinua qu’elle réussirait si
elle commençait par lui donner les prémices de ce qu’elle réservait à
son amant. La Saint-Yves, épouvantée et confuse, feignit long-temps de
ne le pas entendre; il fallut s’expliquer plus clairement. Un mot lâché
d’abord avec retenue en produisait un plus fort suivi d’un autre plus
expressif. On offrit non seulement la révocation de la lettre de
cachet, mais des récompenses, de l’argent, des honneurs, des
établissements; et plus on promettait, plus le désir de n’être pas
refusé augmentait.

La Saint-Yves pleurait, elle était suffoquée, à demi renversée sur un
sofa, croyant à peine ce qu’elle voyait, ce qu’elle entendait. Le
Saint-Pouange, à son tour, se jeta à ses genoux. Il n’était pas sans
agréments, et aurait pu ne pas effaroucher un coeur moins prévenu; mais
Saint-Yves adorait son amant, et croyait que c’était un crime horrible
de le trahir pour le servir. Saint-Pouange redoublait les prières et
les promesses: enfin la tête lui tourna au point, qu’il lui déclara que
c’était le seul moyen de tirer de sa prison l’homme auquel elle prenait
un intérêt si violent et si tendre. Cet étrange entretien se
prolongeait. La dévote de l’antichambre, en lisant son *Pédagogue
chrétien*, disait: Mon Dieu! que peuvent-ils faire là depuis deux
heures? jamais monseigneur de Saint-Pouange n’a donné une si longue
audience; peut-être qu’il a tout refusé à cette pauvre fille,
puisqu’elle le prie encore.

Enfin sa compagne sortit de l’arrière-cabinet, tout éperdue, sans
pouvoir parler, réfléchissant profondément sur le caractère des grands
et des demi-grands, qui sacrifient si légèrement la liberté des hommes
et l’honneur des femmes.

Elle ne dit pas un mot pendant tout le chemin. Arrivée chez l’amie,
elle éclata, elle lui conta tout. La dévote fit de grands signes de
croix. Ma chère amie, il faut consulter dès demain le P. Tout-à-tous,
notre directeur; il a beaucoup de crédit auprès de M. de Saint-Pouange;
il confesse plusieurs servantes de sa maison; c’est un homme pieux et
accommodant, qui dirige aussi des femmes de qualité: abandonnez-vous à
lui, c’est ainsi que j’en use; je m’en suis toujours bien trouvée. Nous
autres pauvres femmes nous avons besoin d’être conduites par un
homme.—Eh bien donc! ma chère amie, j’irai trouver demain le P.
Tout-à-tous.

### Chapter XVI

Elle consulte un jésuite.

Dès que la belle et désolée Saint-Yves fut avec son bon confesseur,
elle lui confia qu’un homme puissant et voluptueux lui proposait de
faire sortir de prison celui qu’elle devait épouser légitimement, et
qu’il demandait un grand prix de son service; qu’elle avait une
répugnance horrible pour une telle infidélité, et que, s’il ne
s’agissait que de sa propre vie, elle la sacrifierait plutôt que de
succomber.

Voilà un abominable pécheur! lui dit le P. Tout-à-tous. Vous devriez
bien me dire le nom de ce vilain homme; c’est à coup sûr quelque
janséniste; je le dénoncerai à sa révérence le P. de La Chaise, qui le
fera mettre dans le gîte où est à présent la chère personne que vous
devez épouser.

La pauvre fille, après un long embarras et de grandes irrésolutions,
lui nomma enfin Saint-Pouange.

Monseigneur de Saint-Pouange! s’écria le jésuite; ah! ma fille, c’est
tout autre chose; il est cousin du plus grand ministre que nous ayons
jamais eu, homme de bien, protecteur de la bonne cause, bon chrétien;
il ne peut avoir eu une telle pensée; il faut que vous ayez mal
entendu.—Ah! mon père, je n’ai entendu que trop bien; je suis perdue,
quoi que je fasse; je n’ai que le choix du malheur et de la honte; il
faut que mon amant reste enseveli tout vivant, ou que je me rende
indigne de vivre. Je ne puis le laisser périr, et je ne puis le sauver.

Le P. Tout-à-tous tâcha de la calmer par ces douces paroles:

Premièrement, ma fille, ne dites jamais ce mot *mon amant*; il y a
quelque chose de mondain qui pourrait offenser Dieu: dites *mon mari*;
car bien qu’il ne le soit pas encore, vous le regardez comme tel; et
rien n’est plus honnête.

Secondement, bien qu’il soit votre époux en idée, en espérance, il ne
l’est pas en effet: ainsi vous ne commettriez pas un adultère, péché
énorme qu’il faut toujours éviter autant qu’il est possible.

Troisièmement, les actions ne sont pas d’une malice de coulpe quand
l’intention est pure, et rien n’est plus pur que de délivrer votre
mari.

Quatrièmement, vous avez des exemples dans la sainte antiquité qui
peuvent merveilleusement servir à votre conduite. Saint Augustin
rapporte que sous le proconsulat de Septimius Acyndinus, en l’an 340
de notre salut, un pauvre homme ne pouvant payer à César ce qui
appartenait à César, fut condamné à la mort, comme il est juste, malgré
la maxime, *Où il n’y a rien le roi perd ses droits*. Il s’agissait
d’une livre d’or; le condamné avait une femme en qui Dieu avait mis la
beauté et la prudence. Un vieux richard promit de donner une livre
d’or, et même plus, à la dame, à condition qu’il commettrait avec elle
le péché immonde. La dame ne crut point faire mal en sauvant son mari.
Saint Augustin approuve fort sa généreuse résignation. Il est vrai que
le vieux richard la trompa, et peut-être même son mari n’en fut pas
moins pendu; mais elle avait fait tout ce qui était en elle pour sauver
sa vie.

Soyez sûre, ma fille, que quand un jésuite vous cite saint Augustin, il
faut que ce saint ait pleinement raison. Je ne vous conseille rien,
vous êtes sage; il est à présumer que vous serez utile à votre mari.
Monseigneur de Saint-Pouange est un honnête homme, il ne vous trompera
pas; c’est tout ce que je puis vous dire: je prierai Dieu pour vous, et
j’espère que tout se passera à sa plus grande gloire.

La belle Saint-Yves, non moins effrayée des discours du jésuite que des
propositions du sous-ministre, s’en retourna éperdue chez son amie.
Elle était tentée de se délivrer, par la mort, de l’horreur de laisser
dans une captivité affreuse l’amant qu’elle adorait, et de la honte de
le délivrer au prix de ce qu’elle avait de plus cher, et qui ne devait
appartenir qu’à cet amant infortuné.

### Chapter XVII

Elle succombe par vertu.

Elle priait son amie de la tuer; mais cette femme, non moins indulgente
que le jésuite, lui parla plus clairement encore. Hélas! dit-elle, les
affaires ne se font guère autrement dans cette cour si aimable, si
galante, si renommée. Les places les plus médiocres et les plus
considérables n’ont souvent été données qu’au prix qu’on exige de vous.
Ecoutez, vous m’avez inspiré de l’amitié et de la confiance; je vous
avouerai que si j’avais été aussi difficile que vous l’êtes, mon mari
ne jouirait pas du petit poste qui le fait vivre; il le sait, et loin
d’en être fâché, il voit en moi sa bienfaitrice, et il se regarde comme
ma créature. Pensez-vous que tous ceux qui ont été à la tête des
provinces, ou même des armées, aient dû leurs honneurs et leur fortune
à leurs seuls services? Il en est qui en sont redevables à mesdames
leurs femmes. Les dignités de la guerre ont été sollicitées par
l’amour, et la place a été donnée au mari de la plus belle.

Vous êtes dans une situation bien plus intéressante; il s’agit de
rendre votre amant au jour et de l’épouser; c’est un devoir sacré qu’il
vous faut remplir. On n’a point blâmé les belles et grandes dames dont
je vous parle; on vous applaudira, on dira que vous ne vous êtes permis
une faiblesse que par un excès de vertu.—Ah! quelle vertu! s’écria la
belle Saint-Yves; quel labyrinthe d’iniquités! quel pays! et que
j’apprends à connaître les hommes! Un P. de La Chaise et un bailli
ridicule font mettre mon amant en prison, ma famille me persécute, on
ne me tend la main dans mon désastre que pour me déshonorer. Un jésuite
a perdu un brave homme, un autre jésuite veut me perdre; je ne suis
entourée que de pièges, et je touche au moment de tomber dans la
misère. Il faut que je me tue, ou que je parle au roi; je me jetterai à
ses pieds sur son passage, quand il ira à la messe ou à la comédie.

On ne vous laissera pas approcher, lui dit sa bonne amie; et si vous
aviez le malheur de parler, mons de Louvois et le révérend P. de La
Chaise pourraient vous enterrer dans le fond d’un couvent pour le reste
de vos jours.

Tandis que cette brave personne augmentait ainsi les perplexités de
cette âme désespérée, et enfonçait le poignard dans son coeur, arrive
un exprès de M. de Saint-Pouange avec une lettre et deux beaux pendants
d’oreilles. Saint-Yves rejeta le tout en pleurant; mais l’amie s’en
chargea.

Dès que le messager fut parti, la confidente lit la lettre dans
laquelle on propose un petit souper aux deux amies pour le soir.
Saint-Yves jure qu’elle n’ira point. La dévote veut lui essayer les
deux boucles de diamants. Saint-Yves ne le put souffrir; elle combattit
la journée entière. Enfin, n’ayant en vue que son amant, vaincue,
entraînée, ne sachant où on la mène, elle se laisse conduire au souper
fatal. Rien n’avait pu la déterminer à se parer des pendants
d’oreilles; la confidente les apporta, elle les lui ajusta malgré elle
avant qu’on se mît à table. Saint-Yves était si confuse, si troublée,
qu’elle se laissait tourmenter; et le patron en tirait un augure très
favorable. Vers la fin du repas, la confidente se retira discrètement.
Le patron montra alors la révocation de la lettre de cachet, le brevet
d’une gratification considérable, celui d’une compagnie, et n’épargna
pas les promesses. Ah! lui dit Saint-Yves, que je vous aimerais si vous
ne vouliez pas être tant aimé!

Enfin, après une longue résistance, après des sanglots, des cris, des
larmes, affaiblie du combat, éperdue, languissante, il fallut se
rendre. Elle n’eut d’autre ressource que de se promettre de ne penser
qu’à l’Ingénu, tandis que le cruel jouirait impitoyablement de la
nécessité où elle était réduite.

### Chapter XVIII

Elle délivre son amant et un janséniste.

Au point du jour elle vole à Paris, munie de l’ordre du ministre. Il
est difficile de peindre ce qui se passait dans son coeur pendant ce
voyage. Qu’on imagine une âme vertueuse et noble, humiliée de son
opprobre, enivrée de tendresse, déchirée des remords d’avoir trahi son
amant, pénétrée du plaisir de délivrer ce qu’elle adore! Ses amertumes,
ses combats, son succès, partageaient toutes ses réflexions. Ce n’était
plus cette fille simple dont une éducation provinciale avait rétréci
les idées. L’amour et le malheur l’avaient formée. Le sentiment avait
fait autant de progrès en elle que la raison en avait fait dans
l’esprit de son amant infortuné. Les filles apprennent à sentir plus
aisément que les hommes n’apprennent à penser. Son aventure était plus
instructive que quatre ans de couvent.

Son habit était d’une simplicité extrême. Elle voyait avec horreur les
ajustements sous lesquels elle avait paru devant son funeste
bienfaiteur; elle avait laissé ses boucles de diamants à sa compagne
sans même les regarder. Confuse et charmée, idolâtre de l’Ingénu, et se
haïssant elle-même, elle arrive enfin à la porte de

… cet affreux château, palais de la vengeance,
Qui renferme souvent le crime et l’innocence.

Quand il fallut descendre du carrosse, les forces lui manquèrent; on
l’aida; elle entra, le coeur palpitant, les yeux humides, le front
consterné. On la présente au gouverneur; elle veut lui parler, sa voix
expire; elle montre son ordre en articulant à peine quelques paroles.
Le gouverneur aimait son prisonnier; il fut très aise de sa délivrance.
Son coeur n’était pas endurci comme celui de quelques honorables
geôliers ses confrères qui, ne pensant qu’à la rétribution attachée à
la garde de leurs captifs, fondant leurs revenus sur leurs victimes, et
vivant du malheur d’autrui, se fesaient en secret une joie affreuse des
larmes des infortunés.

Il fait venir le prisonnier dans son appartement. Les deux amants se
voient, et tous deux s’évanouissent. La belle Saint-Yves resta
long-temps sans mouvement et sans vie: l’autre rappela bientôt son
courage. C’est apparemment là madame votre femme, lui dit le
gouverneur; vous ne m’aviez point dit que vous fussiez marié. On me
mande que c’est à ses soins généreux que vous devez votre délivrance.
Ah! je ne suis pas digne d’être sa femme, dit la belle Saint-Yves d’une
voix tremblante; et elle retomba encore en faiblesse.

Quand elle eut repris ses sens, elle présenta, toujours tremblante, le
brevet de la gratification, et la promesse par écrit d’une compagnie.
L’Ingénu, aussi étonné qu’attendri, s’éveillait d’un songe pour
retomber dans un autre. Pourquoi ai-je été renfermé ici? comment
avez-vous pu m’en tirer? où sont les monstres qui m’y ont plongé? Vous
êtes une divinité qui descendez du ciel à mon secours.

La belle Saint-Yves baissait la vue, regardait son amant, rougissait,
et détournait, le moment d’après, ses yeux mouillés de pleurs. Elle lui
apprit enfin tout ce qu’elle savait, et tout ce qu’elle avait éprouvé,
excepté ce qu’elle aurait voulu se cacher pour jamais, et ce qu’un
autre que l’Ingénu, plus accoutumé au monde et plus instruit des usages
de la cour, aurait deviné facilement.

Est-il possible qu’un misérable comme ce bailli ait eu le pouvoir de me
ravir ma liberté? Ah! je vois bien qu’il en est des hommes comme des
plus vils animaux; tous peuvent nuire. Mais est-il possible qu’un
moine, un jésuite confesseur du roi, ait contribué à mon infortune
autant que ce bailli, sans que je puisse imaginer sous quel prétexte ce
détestable fripon m’a persécuté? M’a-t-il fait passer pour un
janséniste? Enfin, comment vous êtes-vous souvenue de moi? je ne le
méritais pas, je n’étais alors qu’un sauvage. Quoi! vous avez pu sans
conseil, sans secours, entreprendre le voyage de Versailles! Vous y
avez paru, et on a brisé mes fers! Il est donc dans la beauté et dans
la vertu un charme invincible qui fait tomber les portes de fer, et qui
amollit les coeurs de bronze!

A ce mot de *vertu*, des sanglots échappèrent à la belle Saint-Yves.
Elle ne savait pas combien elle était vertueuse dans le crime qu’elle
se reprochait.

Son amant continua ainsi: Ange, qui avez rompu mes liens, si vous avez
eu (ce que je ne comprends pas encore) assez de crédit pour me faire
rendre justice, faites-la donc rendre aussi à un vieillard qui m’a le
premier appris à penser, comme vous m’avez appris à aimer. La calamité
nous a unis; je l’aime comme un père, je ne peux vivre ni sans vous ni
sans lui.

Moi! que je sollicite le même homme qui….—Oui, je veux tout vous
devoir, et je ne veux devoir jamais rien qu’à vous: écrivez à cet homme
puissant, comblez-moi de vos bienfaits, achevez ce que vous avez
commencé, achevez vos prodiges. Elle sentait qu’elle devait faire tout
ce que son amant exigeait: elle voulut écrire, sa main ne pouvait
obéir. Elle recommença trois fois sa lettre, la déchira trois fois;
elle écrivit enfin, et les deux amants sortirent après avoir embrassé
le vieux martyr de la grâce efficace.

L’heureuse et désolée Saint-Yves savait dans quelle maison logeait son
frère; elle y alla; son amant prit un appartement dans la même maison.

A peine y furent-ils arrivés que son protecteur lui envoya l’ordre de
l’élargissement du bon-homme Gordon, et lui demanda un rendez-vous pour
le lendemain. Ainsi, à chaque action honnête et généreuse qu’elle
fesait, son déshonneur en était le prix. Elle regardait avec exécration
cet usage de vendre le malheur et le bonheur des hommes. Elle donna
l’ordre de l’élargissement à son amant, et refusa le rendez-vous d’un
bienfaiteur qu’elle ne pouvait plus voir sans expirer de douleur et de
honte. L’Ingénu ne pouvait se séparer d’elle que pour aller délivrer un
ami: il y vola. Il remplit ce devoir en réfléchissant sur les étranges
événements de ce monde, et en admirant la vertu courageuse d’une jeune
fille à qui deux infortunés devaient plus que la vie.

### Chapter XIX

L’Ingénu, la belle Saint-Yves, et leurs parents, sont rassemblés.

La généreuse et respectable infidèle était avec son frère l’abbé de
Saint-Yves, le bon prieur de la Montagne, et la dame de Kerkabon. Tous
étaient également étonnés; mais leur situation et leurs sentiments
étaient bien différents. L’abbé de Saint-Yves pleurait ses torts aux
pieds de sa soeur, qui lui pardonnait. Le prieur et sa tendre soeur
pleuraient aussi, mais de joie; le vilain bailli et son insupportable
fils ne troublaient point cette scène touchante. Ils étaient partis au
premier bruit de l’élargissement de leur ennemi; ils couraient
ensevelir dans leur province leur sottise et leur crainte.

Les quatre personnages, agités de cent mouvements divers, attendaient
que le jeune homme revînt avec l’ami qu’il devait délivrer. L’abbé de
Saint-Yves n’osait lever les yeux devant sa soeur: la bonne Kerkabon
disait: Je reverrai donc mon cher neveu! Vous le reverrez, dit la
charmante Saint-Yves, mais ce n’est plus le même homme; son maintien,
son ton, ses idées, son esprit, tout est changé. Il est devenu aussi
respectable qu’il était naïf et étranger à tout. Il sera l’honneur et
la consolation de votre famille: que ne puis-je être aussi le bonheur
de la mienne! Vous n’êtes point non plus la même, dit le prieur; que
vous est-il donc arrivé qui ait fait en vous un si grand changement?

Au milieu de cette conversation l’Ingénu arrive, tenant par la main son
janséniste. La scène alors devint plus neuve et plus intéressante. Elle
commença par les tendres embrassements de l’oncle et de la tante.
L’abbé de Saint-Yves se mettait presque aux genoux de l’Ingénu, qui
n’était plus l’ingénu. Les deux amants se parlaient par des regards qui
exprimaient tous les sentiments dont ils étaient pénétrés. On voyait
éclater la satisfaction, la reconnaissance, sur le front de l’un;
l’embarras était peint dans les yeux tendres et un peu égarés de
l’autre. On était étonné qu’elle mêlât de la douleur à tant de joie.

Le vieux Gordon devint en peu de moments cher à toute la famille. Il
avait été malheureux avec le jeune prisonnier, et c’était un grand
titre. Il devait sa délivrance aux deux amants, cela seul le
réconciliait avec l’amour; l’âpreté de ses anciennes opinions sortait
de son coeur: il était changé en homme, ainsi que le Huron. Chacun
raconta ses aventures avant le souper. Les deux abbés, la tante,
écoutaient comme des enfants qui entendent des histoires de revenants,
et comme des hommes qui s’intéressaient tous à tant de désastres.
Hélas! dit Gordon, il y a peut-être plus de cinq cents personnes
vertueuses qui sont à présent dans les mêmes fers que mademoiselle de
Saint-Yves a brisés: leurs malheurs sont inconnus. On trouve assez de
mains qui frappent sur la foule des malheureux, et rarement une
secourable. Cette réflexion si vraie augmentait sa sensibilité et sa
reconnaissance: tout redoublait le triomphe de la belle Saint-Yves; on
admirait la grandeur et la fermeté de son âme. L’admiration était mêlée
de ce respect qu’on sent malgré soi pour une personne qu’on croit avoir
du crédit à la cour. Mais l’abbé de Saint-Yves disait quelquefois:
Comment ma soeur a-t-elle pu faire pour obtenir si tôt ce crédit?

On allait se mettre à table de très bonne heure: voilà que la bonne
amie de Versailles arrive, sans rien savoir de tout ce qui s’était
passé; elle était en carrosse à six chevaux, et on voit bien à qui
appartient l’équipage. Elle entre avec l’air imposant d’une personne de
cour qui a de grandes affaires, salue très légèrement la compagnie, et
tirant la belle Saint-Yves à l’écart: Pourquoi vous faire tant
attendre? Suivez-moi; voilà vos diamants que vous aviez oubliés. Elle
ne put dire ces paroles si bas que l’Ingénu ne les entendît: il vit les
diamants; le frère fut interdit; l’oncle et la tante n’éprouvèrent
qu’une surprise de bonnes gens qui n’avaient jamais vu une telle
magnificence. Le jeune homme, qui s’était formé par un an de
réflexions, en fit malgré lui, et parut troublé un moment. Son amante
s’en aperçut; une pâleur mortelle se répandit sur son beau visage, un
frisson la saisit, elle se soutenait à peine. Ah! madame, dit-elle à la
fatale amie, vous m’avez perdue! vous me donnez la mort! Ces paroles
percèrent le coeur de l’Ingénu; mais il avait déjà appris à se
posséder; il ne les releva point, de peur d’inquiéter sa maîtresse
devant son frère, mais il pâlit comme elle.

Saint-Yves, éperdue de l’altération qu’elle apercevait sur le visage de
son amant, entraîne cette femme hors de la chambre dans un petit
passage, jette les diamants à terre devant elle. Ah! ce ne sont pas eux
qui m’ont séduite, vous le savez; mais celui qui les a donnés ne me
reverra jamais. L’amie les ramassait, et Saint-Yves ajoutait: Qu’il les
reprenne ou qu’il vous les donne; allez, ne me rendez plus honteuse de
moi-même. L’ambassadrice enfin s’en retourna, ne pouvant comprendre les
remords dont elle était témoin.

La belle Saint-Yves, oppressée, éprouvant dans son corps une révolution
qui la suffoquait, fut obligée de se mettre au lit; mais pour n’alarmer
personne elle ne parla point de ce qu’elle souffrait; et, ne prétextant
que sa lassitude, elle demanda la permission de prendre du repos; mais
ce fut après avoir rassuré la compagnie par des paroles consolantes et
flatteuses, et jeté sur son amant des regards qui portaient le feu dans
son âme.

Le souper, qu’elle n’animait pas, fut triste dans le commencement, mais
de cette tristesse intéressante qui fournit de ces conversations
attachantes et utiles si supérieures à la frivole joie qu’on recherche,
et qui n’est d’ordinaire qu’un bruit importun.

Gordon fit en peu de mots l’histoire et du jansénisme et du molinisme,
et des persécutions dont un parti accablait l’autre, et de
l’opiniâtreté de tous les deux. L’Ingénu en fit la critique, et
plaignit les hommes qui, non contents de tant de discordes que leurs
intérêts allument, se font de nouveaux maux pour des intérêts
chimériques, et pour des absurdités inintelligibles. Gordon racontait,
l’autre jugeait; les convives écoutaient avec émotion, et s’éclairaient
d’une lumière nouvelle. On parla de la longueur de nos infortunes et de
la brièveté de la vie. On remarqua que chaque profession a un vice et
un danger qui lui sont attachés, et que, depuis le prince jusqu’au
dernier des mendiants, tout semble accuser la nature. Comment se
trouve-t-il tant d’hommes qui, pour si peu d’argent, se font les
persécuteurs, les satellites, les bourreaux des autres hommes? Avec
quelle indifférence inhumaine un homme en place signe la destruction
d’une famille, et avec quelle joie plus barbare des mercenaires
l’exécutent!

J’ai vu dans ma jeunesse, dit le bon-homme Gordon, un parent du
maréchal de Marillac, qui, étant poursuivi dans sa province pour la
cause de cet illustre malheureux, se cachait dans Paris sous un nom
supposé. C’était un vieillard de soixante et douze ans. Sa femme, qui
l’accompagnait, était à peu près de son âge. Ils avaient eu un fils
libertin qui, à l’âge de quatorze ans, s’était enfui de la maison
paternelle; devenu soldat, puis déserteur, il avait passé par tous les
degrés de la débauche et de la misère: enfin, ayant pris un nom de
terre, il était dans les gardes du cardinal de Richelieu (car ce
prêtre, ainsi que le Mazarin, avait des gardes); il avait obtenu un
bâton d’exempt dans cette compagnie de satellites. Cet aventurier fut
chargé d’arrêter le vieillard et son épouse, et s’en acquitta avec
toute la dureté d’un homme qui voulait plaire à son maître. Comme il
les conduisait, il entendit ces deux victimes déplorer la longue suite
des malheurs qu’elles avaient éprouvés depuis leur berceau. Le père et
la mère comptaient parmi leurs plus grandes infortunes les égarements
et la perte de leur fils. Il les reconnut, il ne les conduisit pas
moins en prison, en les assurant que son éminence devait être servie de
préférence à tout. Son éminence récompensa son zèle.

J’ai vu un espion du P. de La Chaise trahir son propre frère, dans
l’espérance d’un petit bénéfice qu’il n’eut point; et je l’ai vu
mourir, non de remords, mais de douleur d’avoir été trompé par le
jésuite.

L’emploi de confesseur, que j’ai long-temps exercé, m’a fait connaître
l’intérieur des familles; je n’en ai guère vu qui ne fussent plongées
dans l’amertume, tandis qu’au dehors, couvertes du masque du bonheur,
elles paraissaient nager dans la joie; et j’ai toujours remarqué que
les grands chagrins étaient le fruit de notre cupidité effrénée.

Pour moi, dit l’Ingénu, je pense qu’une âme noble, reconnaissante, et
sensible, peut vivre heureuse; et je compte bien jouir d’une félicité
sans mélange avec la belle et généreuse Saint-Yves; car je me flatte,
ajouta-t-il, en s’adressant à son frère avec le sourire de l’amitié,
que vous ne me refuserez pas, comme l’année passée, et que je m’y
prendrai d’une manière plus décente. L’abbé se confondit en excuses du
passé et en protestations d’un attachement éternel.

L’oncle Kerkabon dit que ce serait le plus beau jour de sa vie. La
bonne tante, en s’extasiant et en pleurant de joie, s’écriait: Je vous
l’avais bien dit que vous ne seriez jamais sous-diacre! ce sacrement-ci
vaut mieux que l’autre; plût à Dieu que j’en eusse été honorée! mais je
vous servirai de mère. Alors ce fut à qui renchérirait sur les louanges
de la tendre Saint-Yves.

Son amant avait le coeur trop plein de ce qu’elle avait fait pour lui,
il l’aimait trop pour que l’aventure des diamants eût fait sur son
coeur une impression dominante. Mais ces mots qu’il avait trop
entendus, *vous me donnez la mort*, l’effrayaient encore en secret, et
corrompaient toute sa joie, tandis que les éloges de sa belle maîtresse
augmentaient encore son amour. Enfin on n’était plus occupé que d’elle;
on ne parlait que du bonheur que ces deux amants méritaient; on
s’arrangeait pour vivre tous ensemble dans Paris; on fesait des projets
de fortune et d’agrandissement; on se livrait à toutes ces espérances
que la moindre lueur de félicité fait naître si aisément. Mais
l’Ingénu, dans le fond de son coeur, éprouvait un sentiment secret qui
repoussait cette illusion. Il relisait ces promesses signées
Saint-Pouange, et les brevets signés Louvois; on lui dépeignit ces deux
hommes tels qu’ils étaient, ou qu’on les croyait être. Chacun parla des
ministres et du ministère avec cette liberté de table, regardée en
France comme la plus précieuse liberté qu’on puisse goûter sur la
terre.

Si j’étais roi de France, dit l’Ingénu, voici le ministre de la guerre
que je choisirais: je voudrais un homme de la plus haute naissance, par
la raison qu’il donne des ordres à la noblesse. J’exigerais qu’il eût
été lui-même officier, qu’il eût passé par tous les grades, qu’il fût
au moins lieutenant-général des armées, et digne d’être maréchal de
France; car n’est-il pas nécessaire qu’il ait servi lui-même, pour
mieux connaître les détails du service? et les officiers n’obéiront-ils
pas avec cent fois plus d’allégresse à un homme de guerre, qui aura
comme eux signalé son courage, qu’à un homme de cabinet qui ne peut que
deviner tout au plus les opérations d’une campagne, quelque esprit
qu’il puisse avoir? Je ne serais pas fâché que mon ministre fût
généreux, quoique mon garde du trésor royal en fût quelquefois un peu
embarrassé. J’aimerais qu’il eût un travail facile, et que même il se
distinguât par cette gaîté d’esprit, partage d’un homme supérieur aux
affaires, qui plaît tant à la nation, et qui rend tous les devoirs
moins pénibles. Il desirait que ce ministre eût ce caractère,
parcequ’il avait toujours remarqué que cette belle humeur est
incompatible avec la cruauté.

Mons de Louvois n’aurait peut-être pas été satisfait des souhaits de
l’Ingénu; il avait une autre sorte de mérite.

Mais pendant qu’on était à table, la maladie de cette fille malheureuse
prenait un caractère funeste; son sang s’était allumé, une fièvre
dévorante s’était déclarée, elle souffrait, et ne se plaignait point,
attentive à ne pas troubler la joie des convives.

Son frère, sachant qu’elle ne dormait pas, alla au chevet de son lit;
il fut surpris de l’état où elle était. Tout le monde accourut; l’amant
se présentait à la suite du frère. Il était, sans doute, le plus alarmé
et le plus attendri de tous; mais il avait appris à joindre la
discrétion à tous les dons heureux que la nature lui avait prodigués,
et le sentiment prompt des bienséances commençait à dominer dans lui.

On fit venir aussitôt un médecin du voisinage. C’était un de ceux qui
visitent leurs malades en courant, qui confondent la maladie qu’ils
viennent de voir avec celle qu’ils voient, qui mettent une pratique
aveugle dans une science à laquelle toute la maturité d’un discernement
sain et réfléchi ne peut ôter son incertitude et ses dangers. Il
redoubla le mal par sa précipitation à prescrire un remède alors à la
mode. De la mode jusque dans la médecine! Cette manie était trop
commune dans Paris.

La triste Saint-Yves contribuait encore plus que son médecin à rendre
sa maladie dangereuse. Son âme tuait son corps. La foule des pensées
qui l’agitaient portait dans ses veines un poison plus dangereux que
celui de la fièvre la plus brûlante.

### Chapter XX

La belle Saint-Yves meurt, et ce qui en arrive.

On appela un autre médecin: celui-ci, au lieu d’aider la nature, et de
la laisser agir dans une jeune personne dans qui tous les organes
rappelaient la vie, ne fut occupé que de contrecarrer son confrère. La
maladie devint mortelle en deux jours. Le cerveau, qu’on croit le siège
de l’entendement, fut attaqué aussi violemment que le coeur, qui est,
dit-on, le siège des passions.

Quelle mécanique incompréhensible a soumis les organes au sentiment et
à la pensée? comment une seule idée douloureuse dérange-t-elle le cours
du sang? et comment le sang à son tour porte-t-il ses irrégularités
dans l’entendement humain? quel est ce fluide inconnu et dont
l’existence est certaine, qui, plus prompt, plus actif que la lumière,
vole, en moins d’un clin d’oeil, dans tous les canaux de la vie,
produit les sensations, la mémoire, la tristesse ou la joie, la raison
ou le vertige, rappelle avec horreur ce qu’on voudrait oublier, et fait
d’un animal pensant ou un objet d’admiration, ou un sujet de pitié et
de larmes?

C’était là ce que disait le bon Gordon; et cette réflexion si
naturelle, que rarement font les hommes, ne dérobait rien à son
attendrissement; car il n’était pas de ces malheureux philosophes qui
s’efforcent d’être insensibles. Il était touché du sort de cette jeune
fille, comme un père qui voit mourir lentement son enfant chéri. L’abbé
de Saint-Yves était désespéré, le prieur et sa soeur répandaient des
ruisseaux de larmes. Mais qui pourrait peindre l’état de son amant?
nulle langue n’a des expressions qui répondent à ce comble de douleurs;
les langues sont trop imparfaites.

La tante, presque sans vie, tenait la tête de la mourante dans ses
faibles bras; son frère était à genoux au pied du lit; son amant
pressait sa main qu’il baignait de pleurs, et éclatait en sanglots; il
la nommait sa bienfaitrice, son espérance, sa vie, la moitié de
lui-même, sa maîtresse, son épouse. A ce mot d’épouse elle soupira, le
regarda avec une tendresse inexprimable, et soudain jeta un cri
d’horreur; puis, dans un de ces intervalles où l’accablement, et
l’oppression des sens, et les souffrances suspendues, laissent à l’âme
sa liberté et sa force, elle s’écria: Moi, votre épouse! ah! cher
amant, ce nom, ce bonheur, ce prix, n’étaient plus faits pour moi; je
meurs, et je le mérite. O dieu de mon coeur! ô vous que j’ai sacrifié à
des démons infernaux, c’en est fait, je suis punie, vivez heureux. Ces
paroles tendres et terribles ne pouvaient être comprises; mais elles
portaient dans tous les coeurs l’effroi et l’attendrissement; elle eut
le courage de s’expliquer. Chaque mot fit frémir d’étonnement, de
douleur, et de pitié, tous les assistants. Tous se réunissaient à
détester l’homme puissant qui n’avait réparé une horrible injustice que
par un crime, et qui avait forcé la plus respectable innocence à être
sa complice.

Qui? vous coupable! lui dit son amant; non, vous ne l’êtes pas; le
crime ne peut être que dans le coeur, le vôtre est à la vertu et à moi.

Il confirmait ce sentiment par des paroles qui semblaient ramener à la
vie la belle Saint-Yves. Elle se sentit consolée, et s’étonnait d’être
aimée encore. Le vieux Gordon l’aurait condamnée dans le temps qu’il
n’était que janséniste; mais, étant devenu sage, il l’estimait, et il
pleurait.

Au milieu de tant de larmes et de craintes, pendant que le danger de
cette fille si chère remplissait tous les coeurs, que tout était
consterné, on annonce un courrier de la cour. Un courrier! et de qui?
et pourquoi? c’était de la part du confesseur du roi pour le prieur de
la Montagne; ce n’était pas le P. de La Chaise qui écrivait, c’était le
frère Vadbled, son valet de chambre, homme très important dans ce
temps-là, lui qui mandait aux archevêques les volontés du révérend
père, lui qui donnait audience, lui qui promettait des bénéfices, lui
qui fesait quelquefois expédier des lettres de cachet. Il écrivait à
l’abbé de la Montagne «que sa révérence était informée des aventures de
son neveu, que sa prison n’était qu’une méprise, que ces petites
disgrâces arrivaient fréquemment, qu’il ne fallait pas y faire
attention, qu’enfin il convenait que lui prieur vînt lui présenter son
neveu le lendemain, qu’il devait amener avec lui le bon-homme Gordon,
que lui frère Vadbled les introduirait chez sa révérence et chez mons
de Louvois, lequel leur dirait un mot dans son antichambre.»

Il ajoutait que l’histoire de l’Ingénu et son combat contre les Anglais
avaient été contés au roi, que sûrement le roi daignerait le remarquer
quand il passerait dans la galerie, et peut-être même lui ferait un
signe de tête. La lettre finissait par l’espérance dont on le flattait,
que toutes les dames de la cour s’empresseraient de faire venir son
neveu à leur toilette, que plusieurs d’entre elles lui diraient:
Bonjour, monsieur l’Ingénu; et qu’assurément il serait question de lui
au souper du roi. La lettre était signée: «Votre affectionné Vadbled,
frère jésuite.»

Le prieur ayant lu la lettre tout haut, son neveu furieux, et
commandant un moment à sa colère, ne dit rien au porteur; mais se
tournant vers le compagnon de ses infortunes, il lui demanda ce qu’il
pensait de ce style. Gordon lui répondit: C’est donc ainsi qu’on traite
les hommes comme des singes! on les bat et on les fait danser.
L’Ingénu, reprenant son caractère, qui revient toujours dans les grands
mouvements de l’âme, déchira la lettre par morceaux, et les jeta au nez
du courrier: Voilà ma réponse. Son oncle épouvanté crut voir le
tonnerre et vingt lettres de cachet tomber sur lui. Il alla vite écrire
et excuser, comme il put, ce qu’il prenait pour l’emportement d’un
jeune homme, et qui était la saillie d’une grande âme.

Mais des soins plus douloureux s’emparaient de tous les coeurs. La
belle et infortunée Saint-Yves sentait déjà sa fin approcher; elle
était dans le calme, mais dans ce calme affreux de la nature affaissée
qui n’a plus la force de combattre. O mon cher amant! dit-elle d’une
voix tombante, la mort me punit de ma faiblesse; mais j’expire avec la
consolation de vous savoir libre.

Je vous ai adoré en vous trahissant, et je vous adore en vous disant un
éternel adieu.

Elle ne se parait pas d’une vaine fermeté; elle ne concevait pas cette
misérable gloire de faire dire à quelques voisins: Elle est morte avec
courage. Qui peut perdre à vingt ans son amant, sa vie, et ce qu’on
appelle l’*honneur*, sans regrets et sans déchirements? Elle sentait
toute l’horreur de son état, et le fesait sentir par ces mots et par
ces regards mourants qui parlent avec tant d’empire. Enfin elle
pleurait comme les autres dans les moments où elle eut la force de
pleurer.

Que d’autres cherchent à louer les morts fastueuses de ceux qui entrent
dans la destruction avec insensibilité: c’est le sort de tous les
animaux. Nous ne mourons comme eux avec indifférence, que quand l’âge
ou la maladie nous rend semblables à eux par la stupidité de nos
organes. Quiconque fait une grande perte a de grands regrets; s’il les
étouffe, c’est qu’il porte la vanité jusque dans les bras de la mort.

Lorsque le moment fatal fut arrivé, tous les assistants jetèrent des
larmes et des cris. L’Ingénu perdit l’usage de ses sens. Les âmes
fortes ont des sentiments bien plus violents que les autres, quand
elles sont tendres. Le bon Gordon le connaissait assez pour craindre
qu’étant revenu à lui il ne se donnât la mort. On écarta toutes les
armes; le malheureux jeune homme s’en aperçut; il dit à ses parents et
à Gordon, sans pleurer, sans gémir, sans s’émouvoir: Pensez-vous donc
qu’il y ait quelqu’un sur la terre qui ait le droit et le pouvoir de
m’empêcher de finir ma vie? Gordon se garda bien de lui étaler ces
lieux communs fastidieux par lesquels on essaie de prouver qu’il n’est
pas permis d’user de sa liberté pour cesser d’être quand on est
horriblement mal, qu’il ne faut pas sortir de sa maison quand on ne
peut plus y demeurer, que l’homme est sur la terre comme un soldat à
son poste: comme s’il importait à l’Etre des êtres que l’assemblage de
quelques parties de matière fût dans un lieu ou dans un autre; raisons
impuissantes qu’un désespoir ferme et réfléchi dédaigne d’écouter, et
auxquelles Caton ne répondit que par un coup de poignard.

Le morne et terrible silence de l’Ingénu, ses yeux sombres, ses lèvres
tremblantes, les frémissements de son corps, portaient dans l’âme de
tous ceux qui le regardaient ce mélange de compassion et d’effroi qui
enchaîne toutes les puissances de l’âme, qui exclut tout discours, et
qui ne se manifeste que par des mots entrecoupés. L’hôtesse et sa
famille étaient accourues; on tremblait de son désespoir, on le gardait
à vue, on observait tous ses mouvements. Déjà le corps glacé de la
belle Saint-Yves avait été porté dans une salle basse, loin des yeux de
son amant, qui semblait la chercher encore, quoiqu’il ne fût plus en
état de rien voir.

Au milieu de ce spectacle de la mort, tandis que le corps est exposé à
la porte de la maison, que deux prêtres à côté d’un bénitier récitent
des prières d’un air distrait, que des passants jettent quelques
gouttes d’eau bénite sur la bière par oisiveté, que d’autres
poursuivent leur chemin avec indifférence, que les parents pleurent, et
qu’un amant est prêt de s’arracher la vie, le Saint-Pouange arrive avec
l’amie de Versailles.

Son goût passager, n’ayant été satisfait qu’une fois, était devenu de
l’amour. Le refus de ses bienfaits l’avait piqué. Le P. de La Chaise
n’aurait jamais pensé à venir dans cette maison; mais Saint-Pouange
ayant tous les jours devant les yeux l’image de la belle Saint-Yves,
brûlant d’assouvir une passion qui par une seule jouissance avait
enfoncé dans son coeur l’aiguillon des désirs, ne balança pas à venir
lui-même chercher celle qu’il n’aurait pas peut-être voulu revoir trois
fois, si elle était venue d’elle-même.

Il descend de carrosse; le premier objet qui se présente à lui est une
bière; il détourne les yeux avec ce simple dégoût d’un homme nourri
dans les plaisirs, qui pense qu’on doit lui épargner tout spectacle qui
pourrait le ramener à la contemplation de la misère humaine. Il veut
monter. La femme de Versailles demande par curiosité qui on va
enterrer; on prononce le nom de mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. A ce nom,
elle pâlit et pousse un cri affreux; Saint-Pouange se retourne; la
surprise et la douleur remplissent son âme. Le bon Gordon était là, les
yeux remplis de larmes. Il interrompt ses tristes prières pour
apprendre à l’homme de cour toute cette horrible catastrophe. Il lui
parle avec cet empire que donnent la douleur et la vertu. Saint-Pouange
n’était point né méchant; le torrent des affaires et des amusements
avait emporté son âme, qui ne se connaissait pas encore. Il ne touchait
point à la vieillesse, qui endurcit d’ordinaire le coeur des ministres;
il écoutait Gordon, les yeux baissés, et il en essuyait quelques pleurs
qu’il était étonné de répandre: il connut le repentir.

Je veux voir absolument, dit-il, cet homme extraordinaire dont vous
m’avez parlé; il m’attendrit presque autant que cette innocente victime
dont j’ai causé la mort. Gordon le suit jusqu’à la chambre où le
prieur, la Kerkabon, l’abbé de Saint-Yves, et quelques voisins,
rappelaient à la vie le jeune homme retombé en défaillance.

J’ai fait votre malheur, lui dit le sous-ministre, j’emploierai ma vie
à le réparer. La première idée qui vint à l’Ingénu fut de le tuer, et
de se tuer lui-même après. Rien n’était plus à sa place; mais il était
sans armes et veillé de près. Saint-Pouange ne se rebuta point des
refus accompagnés du reproche, du mépris, et de l’horreur qu’il avait
mérités, et qu’on lui prodigua. Le temps adoucit tout. Mons de Louvois
vint enfin à bout de faire un excellent officier de l’Ingénu, qui a
paru sous un autre nom à Paris et dans les armées, avec l’approbation
de tous les honnêtes gens, et qui a été à-la-fois un guerrier et un
philosophe intrépide.

Il ne parlait jamais de cette aventure sans gémir; et cependant sa
consolation était d’en parler. Il chérit la mémoire de la tendre
Saint-Yves jusqu’au dernier moment de sa vie. L’abbé de Saint-Yves et
le prieur eurent chacun un bon bénéfice; la bonne Kerkabon aima mieux
voir son neveu dans les honneurs militaires que dans le sous-diaconat.
La dévote de Versailles garda les boucles de diamants, et reçut encore
un beau présent. Le P. Tout-à-tous eut des boîtes de chocolat, de café,
de sucre candi, de citrons confits, avec les *Méditations du révérend
P. Croiset* et *la Fleur des saints* reliées en maroquin. Le bon
Gordon vécut avec l’Ingénu jusqu’à sa mort dans la plus intime amitié;
il eut un bénéfice aussi, et oublia pour jamais la grâce efficace et le
concours concomitant. Il prit pour sa devise: *Malheur est bon à
quelque chose*. Combien d’honnêtes gens dans le monde ont pu dire:
*Malheur n’est bon à rien!*

## Translation — Mouseia

> Complete machine-assisted Musean translation made directly from the French, independently of the Plain English edition. All twenty chapters and Voltaire’s three author notes are retained; Beuchot’s editorial apparatus is omitted.

### Chapter I

How the prior of Notre-Dame de la Montagne and his sister met a Huron.

One day Saint Dunstan, Irish by nationality and a saint by profession, left Ireland on a little mountain that sailed toward the coast of France, and by this conveyance arrived in the bay of Saint-Malo. Once ashore, he blessed his mountain, which bowed deeply to him and returned to Ireland by the way it had come.

Dunstan founded a little priory in those parts and named it the Priory of the Mountain, a name it still bears, as everyone knows.

On the evening of July 15, 1689, the Abbé de Kerkabon, prior of Notre-Dame de la Montagne, was walking by the sea with his sister, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, to enjoy the cool air. The prior, already somewhat advanced in years, was a very good churchman, beloved by the men of the neighborhood, as he had once been by the women. What had chiefly earned him great esteem was that he was the only holder of a church benefice in the district who did not have to be carried to bed after dining with his fellow clerics. He knew a respectable amount of theology; and when he grew tired of reading Saint Augustine, he amused himself with Rabelais. Everyone therefore spoke well of him.

Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, who had never married, although she had very much wanted to, retained a fresh complexion at the age of forty-five. Her nature was kind and tenderhearted; she loved pleasure and was devout.

As he looked out to sea, the prior said to his sister, "Alas! This is where our poor brother embarked with our dear sister-in-law, Madame de Kerkabon, his wife, aboard the frigate *Hirondelle*, in 1669, to go and serve in Canada. If he had not been killed, we might still hope to see him again."

"Do you believe," said Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, "that our sister-in-law was eaten by the Iroquois, as we were told? Certainly, if she had not been eaten, she would have come home. I shall mourn her all my life. She was a charming woman; and our brother, who had a great deal of wit, would surely have made his fortune."

While they were both moved by these memories, they saw a small vessel entering the bay of the Rance on the tide. It carried Englishmen who had come to sell some produce of their country. They leaped ashore without looking at the prior or his sister, who was deeply offended by their lack of attention to her.

It was otherwise with a very well-built young man who sprang in a single leap over his companions' heads and landed face-to-face with the lady. He nodded to her, not being accustomed to bowing. His appearance and his dress caught the eyes of brother and sister. His head and legs were bare, his feet shod in little sandals, his head adorned with long braided hair; a short doublet fitted his slim, supple waist. His bearing was warlike and gentle. In one hand he held a small bottle of Barbados spirits, and in the other a sort of pouch containing a drinking cup and some very good ship's biscuit. He spoke quite intelligible French. He offered Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and her brother some of his Barbados spirits and drank with them; he had them drink again, all with such simplicity and natural grace that brother and sister were delighted. They offered to help him, asking who he was and where he was going. The young man replied that he did not know; that he was curious, that he had wanted to see what the coast of France looked like, that he had come, and that he would be going back.

Judging by his accent that he was not English, the prior took the liberty of asking what country he came from. "I am a Huron," the young man answered.

Astonished and enchanted to see a Huron who had shown her such courtesy, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon invited the young man to supper. He did not need to be asked twice, and all three went together to the priory of Notre-Dame de la Montagne.

The short, round lady stared at him with her little eyes wide open and said from time to time to the prior, "That tall lad has a complexion of lilies and roses! What lovely skin for a Huron!" "You are right, my sister," said the prior. She asked a hundred questions in rapid succession, and the traveler always gave an apt reply.

Word soon spread that there was a Huron at the priory. The district's best society hurried over for supper. The Abbé de Saint-Yves came with his sister, a young woman of Lower Brittany, very pretty and very well brought up. The bailiff, the tax collector, and their wives joined the supper party. They seated the stranger between Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. Everyone gazed at him in admiration; everyone spoke to him and questioned him at once. The Huron was unperturbed. He seemed to have adopted Lord Bolingbroke's motto, *Nihil admirari*. But at last, worn out by so much noise, he said quite gently, though with a little firmness, "Gentlemen, in my country people speak one at a time. How do you expect me to answer when you keep me from hearing you?" Reason always brings people to their senses for a few moments: a great silence fell. The bailiff, who always took possession of strangers in any house he happened to visit, and who was the greatest questioner in the province, opened his mouth half a foot wide and said, "Sir, what is your name?" "I have always been called the Ingénu," the Huron replied, "and they confirmed that name in England, because I always say quite candidly what I think, just as I do whatever I please."

"How, sir, if you were born a Huron, did you manage to come to England?" "Because I was taken there. The English captured me in a battle, after I had defended myself fairly well; and the English, who love bravery because they are brave themselves, and who are as honorable as we are, offered either to return me to my people or to take me to England. I chose the latter, because I am by nature passionately fond of seeing the world."

"But, sir," said the bailiff in his imposing tone, "how could you abandon your father and mother like that?" "Because I have never known either father or mother," the stranger said. The company was touched, and everyone repeated, *"Neither father nor mother!"* "We shall take their place," the lady of the house said to her brother the prior. "What an engaging gentleman this Huron is!" The Ingénu thanked her with a noble and proud warmth and made her understand that he needed nothing.

"I observe, Monsieur Ingénu," said the solemn bailiff, "that you speak better French than is fitting for a Huron." "A Frenchman," he said, "whom we captured in Huronia when I was very young, and of whom I grew very fond, taught me his language. I learn very quickly whatever I want to learn. When I arrived in Plymouth, I met one of your French refugees, whom you call *Huguenots*, I do not know why. He helped me make some progress in your language; and as soon as I could make myself understood, I came to see your country, because I rather like the French when they do not ask too many questions."

Despite this little warning, the Abbé de Saint-Yves asked which of the three languages he liked best: Huron, English, or French. "Huron, unquestionably," the Ingénu replied. "Is it possible?" cried Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "I had always thought French the loveliest of all languages after Breton."

Then everyone competed to ask the Ingénu how to say tobacco in Huron, and he answered *taya*; how to say eat, and he answered *essenten*. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon absolutely insisted on knowing how to say make love; he answered *trovander*[a], and maintained, not without some show of reason, that these words were quite as good as their French and English equivalents. All the guests found *trovander* very pretty.

[a] All these words are in fact Huron.

The prior, who had in his library a Huron grammar given to him by the Reverend Father Sagar Théodat, a Recollect friar and celebrated missionary, left the table for a moment to consult it. He returned fairly breathless with tenderness and joy: he had established that the Ingénu was a true Huron. There was some debate about the multiplicity of languages, and everyone agreed that, but for the affair of the Tower of Babel, the whole world would have spoken French.

The questioning bailiff, who until then had been a little suspicious of the fellow, conceived a profound respect for him. He spoke to him more civilly than before, which the Ingénu did not notice.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves was very curious to know how people made love in the country of the Hurons. "By doing fine deeds," he answered, "to please people who resemble you." All the guests applauded in astonishment. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves blushed and was delighted. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon blushed too, but she was not so delighted; she was a little piqued that the compliment had not been addressed to her. Yet she was so good a person that her affection for the Huron was not diminished in the least. With great kindness she asked how many mistresses he had had in Huronia. "I have only ever had one," the Ingénu said. "It was Mademoiselle Abacaba, my dear nurse's good friend. The reeds are no straighter, the ermine no whiter; sheep are less gentle, eagles less proud, and stags are not as swift as Abacaba was. One day she was chasing a hare in our neighborhood, some fifty leagues from our home, when an ill-bred Algonquin, who lived a hundred leagues farther off, came and took her hare. I heard of it, ran there, felled the Algonquin with a blow of my club, and brought him to my mistress's feet, bound hand and foot. Abacaba's relatives wanted to eat him, but I have never had a taste for feasts of that kind. I set him free and made him a friend. Abacaba was so touched by what I had done that she preferred me to all her suitors. She would love me still if she had not been eaten by a bear. I punished the bear; I wore its skin for a long time, but that did not console me."

As she listened, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves felt a secret pleasure in learning that the Ingénu had had only one mistress and that Abacaba was no more; but she could not distinguish the cause of her pleasure. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the Ingénu. He was much praised for having kept his companions from eating an Algonquin.

The relentless bailiff, unable to curb his mania for questioning, at last carried his curiosity so far as to ask what religion Monsieur the Huron professed: had he chosen the Anglican religion, the Gallican, or the Huguenot? "I belong to my religion," he said, "as you belong to yours." "Alas!" cried Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "I can see that those wretched English never even thought of having him baptized." "Oh, my God," said Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, "how can it be that the Hurons are not Catholics? Have the reverend Jesuit fathers not converted them all?" The Ingénu assured her that in his country no one was converted; that no true Huron had ever changed his opinion, and that his language did not even have a word meaning *inconstancy*. These last words pleased Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves exceedingly.

"We shall baptize him, we shall baptize him," Mademoiselle de Kerkabon told the prior. "You shall have the honor, my dear brother. I absolutely insist on being his godmother. The Abbé de Saint-Yves will present him at the font. It will be a splendid ceremony; people will speak of it throughout Lower Brittany, and it will do us infinite credit." The whole company supported the lady of the house; all the guests cried, "We shall baptize him!" The Ingénu replied that in England people were allowed to live as they pleased. He made it clear that the proposal did not please him at all, and that the law of the Hurons was at least as good as that of the Lower Bretons. Finally, he said he was leaving the next day. They finished his bottle of Barbados spirits, and everyone went to bed.

When they had shown the Ingénu to his room, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and her friend Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves could not resist peeping through a large keyhole to see how a Huron slept. They saw that he had spread the bedcover on the floor and was resting in the most beautiful posture in the world.

### Chapter II

The Huron, called the Ingénu, is recognized by his family.

As was his custom, the Ingénu woke with the sun, at the crowing of the cock, which in England and Huronia is called *the trumpet of the day*. He was not like fashionable society, which languishes in an idle bed until the sun has completed half its circuit, unable either to sleep or to rise, wasting so many precious hours in that state midway between life and death, and still complaining that life is too short.

He had already covered two or three leagues and killed thirty head of game with single bullets when, on his return, he found the prior of Notre-Dame de la Montagne and his discreet sister walking in their nightcaps in their little garden. He presented them with all his game; then, drawing from his shirt a sort of little talisman that he always wore around his neck, he begged them to accept it in gratitude for their kind reception. "It is the most precious thing I have," he told them. "I was assured that I would always be happy as long as I wore this little trinket, and I give it to you so that you may always be happy."

The prior and his sister smiled tenderly at the Ingénu's simplicity. The gift consisted of two rather poorly executed miniature portraits, fastened together by a very greasy strap.

Mademoiselle de Kerkabon asked him whether there were painters in Huronia. "No," said the Ingénu. "This rarity came to me from my nurse. Her husband had won it as spoils, stripping some Frenchmen from Canada who had made war on us. That is all I ever knew about it."

The prior studied the portraits closely. He changed color, grew agitated; his hands trembled. "By Our Lady of the Mountain!" he cried. "I believe these are the faces of my brother the captain and his wife!" After examining them with the same emotion, his sister came to the same conclusion. Both were seized with astonishment and a joy mingled with grief; both were deeply moved; both wept. Their hearts pounded; they cried out; they snatched the portraits from each other. Each took them and handed them back twenty times in a second. They devoured the portraits and the Huron with their eyes. They asked him one after the other, and both at once, where, when, and how these miniatures had come into his nurse's hands. They pieced together the dates, counted the years since the captain's departure; they remembered hearing that he had gone as far as the country of the Hurons and that since then they had never heard of him again.

The Ingénu had told them that he had known neither father nor mother. The prior, who was a sensible man, noticed that the Ingénu had a little beard; he knew very well that Hurons had none. "His chin is downy, so he is the son of a European. My brother and sister-in-law were never seen again after the expedition against the Hurons in 1669. My nephew must then have been a nursing infant; the Huron nurse saved his life and became a mother to him." At last, after a hundred questions and a hundred answers, the prior and his sister concluded that the Huron was their own nephew. They embraced him with streaming tears, while the Ingénu laughed, unable to imagine that a Huron could be the nephew of a prior in Lower Brittany.

The whole company came downstairs. Monsieur de Saint-Yves, who was a great judge of faces, compared the two portraits with the Ingénu's features. He very skillfully pointed out that he had his mother's eyes, the forehead and nose of the late Captain de Kerkabon, and cheeks that took after both.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, who had never seen either father or mother, declared that the Ingénu resembled them perfectly. They all marveled at Providence and the chain of events in this world. In short, they were so persuaded, so convinced of the Ingénu's parentage, that he himself consented to be the prior's nephew, saying that he would as soon have him for an uncle as anyone else.

They went to give thanks to God in the church of Notre-Dame de la Montagne, while the Huron, quite unconcerned, amused himself by drinking in the house.

The Englishmen who had brought him, and who were ready to set sail, came to tell him it was time to leave. "Apparently," he told them, "you have not found your uncles and aunts. I am staying here. Go back to Plymouth; I give you all my belongings. I need nothing more in the world, since I am the nephew of a prior." The Englishmen set sail, caring very little whether the Ingénu had relatives in Lower Brittany or not.

After the uncle, the aunt, and the company had sung the *Te Deum*; after the bailiff had once more overwhelmed the Ingénu with questions; after they had exhausted everything that astonishment, joy, and tenderness could prompt them to say, the prior of the Mountain and the Abbé de Saint-Yves resolved to have the Ingénu baptized as soon as possible. But a strapping Huron of twenty-two was not like a baby who is regenerated without knowing anything about it. He would have to be instructed, and that seemed difficult, for the Abbé de Saint-Yves assumed that a man who had not been born in France had no common sense.

The prior pointed out to the company that, although Monsieur Ingénu, his nephew, had indeed not had the good fortune to be born in Lower Brittany, he was no less intelligent for that; they could judge as much from all his answers, and nature had certainly been very generous to him on both his father's and his mother's side.

First they asked whether he had ever read a book. He said he had read Rabelais in English translation and some passages of Shakespeare that he knew by heart; that he had found these books in the possession of the captain of the ship that had brought him from America to Plymouth, and that he had been very pleased with them. The bailiff did not fail to question him about these books. "I confess," said the Ingénu, "that I thought I could guess at some of it, and that I did not understand the rest."

Hearing this, the Abbé de Saint-Yves reflected that this was how he himself had always read, and that most people read in much the same way. "You have doubtless read the *Bible*?" he asked the Huron. "Not at all, Monsieur l'Abbé. It was not among my captain's books. I have never heard of it." "That is just like those damned English!" cried Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "They think more of a play by Shakespeare, a plum pudding, and a bottle of rum than of the Pentateuch. And so they have never converted anyone in America. They are certainly accursed by God, and before long we shall take Jamaica and Virginia from them."

Be that as it may, they sent for the most skillful tailor in Saint-Malo to dress the Ingénu from head to foot. The company dispersed; the bailiff went off to ask his questions elsewhere. As she left, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves turned back several times to look at the Ingénu, and he bowed to her more deeply than he had ever bowed to anyone in his life.

Before taking his leave, the bailiff presented to Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves a great lout of a son who had just left school; but she scarcely looked at him, so taken up was she with the Huron's courtesy.

### Chapter III

The Huron, called the Ingénu, is converted.

The prior, reflecting that he was growing rather old and that God had sent him a nephew for his consolation, took it into his head that he might resign his benefice in the young man's favor, if he succeeded in having him baptized and admitted to holy orders.

The Ingénu had an excellent memory. The sturdy constitution of Lower Brittany, strengthened by the climate of Canada, had made his head so robust that when someone struck it, he scarcely felt the blow; and when something was engraved within it, nothing could efface it. He had never forgotten anything. His understanding was all the keener and clearer because his childhood had not been burdened with the useless things and absurdities that weigh down ours: things entered his brain without a cloud. The prior finally resolved to have him read the New *Testament*. The Ingénu devoured it with great pleasure; but knowing neither when nor in what country all the adventures related in the book had taken place, he had no doubt that the scene was set in Lower Brittany. He swore he would cut off the noses and ears of Caiaphas and Pilate if he ever met those rogues.

His uncle, delighted with these promising dispositions, soon put him in possession of the facts. He praised his zeal, but explained that it was useless, since those men had died some sixteen hundred and ninety years before. The Ingénu soon knew almost the whole book by heart. He sometimes raised difficulties that greatly troubled the prior, who was often obliged to consult the Abbé de Saint-Yves. The abbé, not knowing what to answer, sent for a Jesuit from Lower Brittany to complete the Huron's conversion.

At last grace did its work. The Ingénu promised to become a Christian; he had no doubt that he must begin by being circumcised. "For," he said, "in the book you have had me read, I do not see a single person who was not. It is therefore plain that I must sacrifice my foreskin; the sooner the better." He did not hesitate. He sent for the village surgeon and asked him to perform the operation, expecting to give Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and the whole company infinite pleasure once the thing was done. The barber-surgeon, who had never yet performed this operation, informed the family, who raised a great outcry. Good Mademoiselle de Kerkabon trembled lest her nephew, who seemed both determined and brisk, perform the operation himself very clumsily, with those regrettable consequences in which ladies always take an interest out of kindness of heart.

The prior set the Huron's ideas straight. He explained that circumcision was no longer in fashion; that baptism was much gentler and more conducive to salvation; that the law of grace was not like the law of severity. The Ingénu, who had a great deal of good sense and integrity, argued, but acknowledged his error—which is rather rare in Europe among people who argue. In the end he promised to be baptized whenever they wished.

First he had to confess, and this was the greatest difficulty. The Ingénu always carried in his pocket the book his uncle had given him. He could not find a single apostle in it who had gone to confession, and this made him very stubborn. The prior silenced him by showing him, in the Epistle of Saint James the Less, those words that so distress the heretics: *Confess your sins to one another*. The Huron said no more and made his confession to a Recollect friar. When he had finished, he pulled the Recollect out of the confessional, seized his man with a powerful arm, took his place, and made him kneel before him. "Come, my friend, it says: *Confess to one another*. I have told you my sins; you will not leave here until you have told me yours." As he spoke, he pressed his broad knee against his adversary's chest. The Recollect let out howls that resounded through the church. People rushed toward the noise and found the catechumen manhandling the monk in the name of Saint James the Less. The joy of baptizing a Huron and English Lower Breton was so great that these peculiarities were overlooked. Many theologians even thought confession unnecessary, since baptism took the place of everything.

A day was agreed upon with the bishop of Saint-Malo, who, flattered, as may well be imagined, to baptize a Huron, arrived in a splendid equipage followed by his clergy. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, blessing God, put on her finest dress and sent for a hairdresser from Saint-Malo so that she might shine at the ceremony. The questioning bailiff hurried over with the whole countryside. The church was magnificently adorned; but when they went to fetch the Huron and bring him to the baptismal font, he was nowhere to be found.

His uncle and aunt searched for him everywhere. They supposed he was hunting, as usual. All those invited to the celebration scoured the woods and neighboring villages: no news of the Huron.

They began to fear he had returned to England. They remembered hearing him say that he liked that country very much. The prior and his sister were convinced that no one was baptized there, and trembled for their nephew's soul. The bishop was dismayed and ready to leave; the prior and the Abbé de Saint-Yves were in despair; the bailiff questioned every passerby with his usual gravity. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon wept; Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves did not weep, but heaved deep sighs that seemed to testify to her fondness for the sacraments. They were walking sadly among the willows and reeds that border the little river Rance when they caught sight, in the middle of the river, of a tall, rather white figure with both hands crossed upon its chest. They gave a loud cry and turned away. But curiosity soon prevailing over every other consideration, they slipped quietly among the reeds; and when they were quite sure they could not be seen, they set about finding out what was going on.

### Chapter IV

The Ingénu is baptized.

The prior and the abbé came running and asked the Ingénu what he was doing there. "Why, gentlemen, I am waiting to be baptized! I have been up to my neck in water for an hour, and it is not polite to leave me here freezing."

"My dear nephew," the prior told him tenderly, "that is not how we baptize people in Lower Brittany. Put your clothes back on and come with us." On hearing this, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves whispered to her companion, "Mademoiselle, do you think he will put his clothes back on so soon?"

The Huron, meanwhile, answered the prior, "You will not take me in this time as you did before. I have studied hard since then, and I am quite certain there is no other way to be baptized. Queen Candace’s[a] eunuch was baptized in a stream. I defy you to show me, in the book you gave me, that it was ever done any other way. Either I shall not be baptized at all, or I shall be baptized in the river." In vain they explained that customs had changed. The Ingénu was stubborn, for he was both Breton and Huron. He kept coming back to Queen Candace's eunuch; and although his aunt and Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, who had observed him from among the willows, were entitled to tell him that he had no business citing such a man, they did nothing of the sort, so great was their discretion. The bishop came to speak to him in person, which is saying a great deal; but he achieved nothing. The Huron argued with the bishop.

[a] *N. B.* "How could Father Quesnel not have known that Candace was the name of the beautiful queens of Ethiopia, just as Pharaoh or Pharon was the title of the kings of Egypt?"

"Show me," he said, "in the book my uncle gave me, a single man who was not baptized in a river, and I shall do anything you wish."

The aunt, in despair, had noticed that the first time her nephew had bowed, he had bowed more deeply to Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves than to anyone else in the company; that he had not even greeted the bishop with that respect mingled with warmth that he had shown this beautiful young lady. In this great predicament, she decided to appeal to her. She begged her to use her influence to persuade the Huron to be baptized in the same way as the Bretons, not believing that her nephew could ever be a Christian if he persisted in wanting baptism in running water.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves blushed at the secret pleasure she felt in being entrusted with so important a mission. She approached the Ingénu modestly and, pressing his hand in a most gracious manner, said, "Will you do nothing for me?" As she spoke these words, she lowered her eyes and raised them again with a touching grace. "Ah! Anything you wish, mademoiselle, anything you command! Baptism by water, baptism by fire, baptism by blood—there is nothing I would refuse you." Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves had the glory of achieving in two words what neither the prior's urgings, nor the bailiff's repeated questions, nor even the bishop's arguments had been able to accomplish. She felt her triumph, but did not yet feel its full extent.

Baptism was administered and received with all possible decorum, magnificence, and charm. The uncle and aunt yielded to the Abbé de Saint-Yves and his sister the honor of standing with the Ingénu at the font. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves glowed with joy at finding herself his godmother. She did not know what obligations this grand title imposed on her; she accepted the honor without knowing its fatal consequences.

As there has never been a ceremony that was not followed by a great dinner, they sat down to table on leaving the baptism. The wags of Lower Brittany said they must not baptize their wine. The prior said that wine, according to Solomon, gladdens the heart of man. The bishop added that the patriarch Judah was to bind his ass's colt to the vine and dip his cloak in the blood of the grape; and that it was very sad that one could not do the same in Lower Brittany, to which God had denied vineyards. Everyone tried to make a witty remark about the Ingénu's baptism and pay compliments to his godmother. The bailiff, questioning as ever, asked the Huron whether he would keep his promises. "How could I break my promises," the Huron answered, "when I gave my pledge to Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves?"

The Huron grew warm; he drank many toasts to his godmother's health. "Had I been baptized by your hand," he said, "I feel that the cold water they poured on the back of my head would have burned me." The bailiff thought this too poetic, not knowing how familiar allegory is in Canada. But the godmother was exceedingly pleased.

The newly baptized young man had been given the name Hercules. The bishop of Saint-Malo kept asking who this patron saint was, of whom he had never heard. The Jesuit, who was very learned, told him that he was a saint who had performed twelve miracles. There was a thirteenth worth all the other twelve, but of which it did not befit a Jesuit to speak: he had changed fifty girls into women in a single night. A wit who happened to be there dwelt vigorously on this miracle. All the ladies lowered their eyes and judged from the Ingénu's appearance that he was worthy of the saint whose name he bore.

### Chapter V

The Ingénu in love.

It must be admitted that after this baptism and this dinner, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves passionately wished the bishop would let her share some other fine sacrament with Monsieur Hercules the Ingénu. Yet, being well brought up and very modest, she scarcely dared acknowledge her tender feelings even to herself. If a look, a word, a gesture, a thought escaped her, she wrapped it all in a veil of infinitely charming reserve. She was tender, spirited, and virtuous.

As soon as the bishop had left, the Ingénu and Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves met without having reflected that they were looking for each other. They spoke without having imagined what they would say. The Ingénu told her at once that he loved her with all his heart, and that the beautiful Abacaba, about whom he had been mad in his own country, could not compare with her. With her usual modesty, the young lady answered that he must speak as soon as possible to his uncle the prior and to his aunt, and that she, for her part, would say a few words to her dear brother, the Abbé de Saint-Yves; she hoped they would all consent.

The Ingénu replied that he needed no one's consent; that it seemed exceedingly ridiculous to go and ask other people what one ought to do; that when two parties were in agreement, they did not need a third to reconcile them. "I consult no one," he said, "when I feel like having breakfast, hunting, or sleeping. I know very well that in love it does no harm to have the consent of the person you desire. But since I am in love with neither my uncle nor my aunt, they are not the people I should approach in this matter; and if you take my advice, you will do without the Abbé de Saint-Yves as well."

One may imagine that the beautiful Breton used all the delicacy of her wit to bring her Huron within the bounds of propriety. She even grew angry, and soon softened again. In the end, there is no knowing how this conversation would have ended if, as daylight faded, the abbé had not taken his sister back to his abbey. The Ingénu let his uncle and aunt go to bed, for they were rather tired after the ceremony and their long dinner. He spent part of the night composing verses in the Huron language for his beloved; for it must be understood that there is no country on earth where love has not turned lovers into poets.

The next day, after breakfast, his uncle spoke to him as follows, in the presence of Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, who was deeply moved: "Heaven be praised, my dear nephew, that you have the honor of being both a Christian and a Lower Breton! But that is not enough. I am growing rather old; my brother left only a little patch of land, which amounts to very little. I have a fine priory. If you will only become a subdeacon, as I hope you will, I shall resign my priory in your favor, and you will live very comfortably, after having been the consolation of my old age."

The Ingénu answered, "Uncle, I wish you every blessing! Live as long as you can. I do not know what it means to be a subdeacon or to resign, but anything will suit me, provided I can have Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves." "Oh, my God, nephew, what are you saying? Are you madly in love with that beautiful young lady, then?"—"Yes, uncle."—"Alas, nephew, it is impossible for you to marry her."—"It is perfectly possible, uncle; for not only did she press my hand as she left me, but she promised she would ask for my hand in marriage. And I shall certainly marry her."—"It is impossible, I tell you. She is your godmother. It is a dreadful sin for a godmother to press her godson's hand. One is not permitted to marry one's godmother; divine and human laws forbid it."—"Good God, uncle, you are making fun of me! Why should it be forbidden to marry your godmother when she is young and pretty? I saw nothing in the book you gave me saying it was wrong to marry girls who have helped people get baptized. Every day I notice that an infinity of things are done here that are not in your book, while nothing it says is done at all. I confess that this astonishes and angers me. If I am deprived of the beautiful Saint-Yves on the pretext of my baptism, I warn you that I shall carry her off and have myself unbaptized."

The prior was confounded; his sister wept. "My dear brother," she said, "we must not let our nephew damn himself. Our holy father the pope can grant him a dispensation, and then he can be happy as a Christian with the woman he loves." The Ingénu embraced his aunt. "Who is this delightful man," he said, "who so kindly helps young men and women in their loves? I want to go and speak to him at once."

They explained to him what the pope was, and the Ingénu was more astonished than before. "There is not a word of all this in your book, my dear uncle. I have traveled; I know the sea. We are here on the coast of the ocean; and am I to leave Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves to ask permission to love her from a man who lives near the Mediterranean, four hundred leagues from here, and whose language I do not understand? It is incomprehensibly ridiculous. I am going this very moment to the Abbé de Saint-Yves, who lives only a league from you, and I guarantee that I shall marry my beloved today."

While he was still speaking, the bailiff came in and, as usual, asked him where he was going. "I am going to get married," said the Ingénu as he ran off; and a quarter of an hour later he was already at the home of his beautiful, dear Lower Breton, who was still asleep. "Ah, brother," Mademoiselle de Kerkabon said to the prior, "you will never make a subdeacon of our nephew."

The bailiff was very displeased by this visit, for he intended his son to marry Saint-Yves; and the son was even more foolish and more insufferable than his father.

### Chapter VI

The Ingénu runs to his beloved's house and becomes furious.

Scarcely had the Ingénu arrived when, having asked an old servant where his beloved's room was, he thrust open the poorly fastened door and sprang toward the bed. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves woke with a start and cried, "What! It is you! Ah, it is you! Stop! What are you doing?" He answered, "I am marrying you"; and indeed he would have married her, had she not struggled with all the propriety of a person of good breeding.

The Ingénu would stand no fooling; he found all these formalities exceedingly impertinent. "This is not how Mademoiselle Abacaba, my first mistress, behaved. You have no integrity. You promised to marry me, and you will not make a marriage. That is a breach of the first laws of honor. I shall teach you to keep your word and put you back on the path of virtue."

The Ingénu possessed a manly and intrepid virtue, worthy of his patron Hercules, whose name he had been given at baptism. He was about to exercise it to the full when the piercing cries of the more discreetly virtuous young lady brought the wise Abbé de Saint-Yves running, with his housekeeper, a devout old manservant, and a parish priest. This sight tempered the assailant's courage. "Oh, my God, my dear neighbor," the abbé said, "what are you doing here?" "My duty," the young man replied. "I am fulfilling my promises, which are sacred."

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves put her clothes in order, blushing. They took the Ingénu into another room. The abbé explained the enormity of his conduct. The Ingénu defended himself by appealing to the privileges of natural law, which he understood perfectly. The abbé sought to prove that positive law must take complete precedence, and that without the agreements made among men, the law of nature would almost always be no more than natural lawlessness. "We need," he told him, "notaries, priests, witnesses, contracts, dispensations." The Ingénu answered with the reflection that savages have always made: "You must be very dishonest people, then, if you need so many precautions among yourselves."

The abbé had difficulty resolving this objection. "There are, I admit," he said, "many fickle people and rogues among us; and there would be as many among the Hurons if they were gathered together in a great city. But there are also wise, honorable, enlightened souls, and those are the men who have made the laws. The better a man is, the more he must submit to them. He sets an example to the wicked, who respect a restraint that virtue has imposed on itself."

This answer struck the Ingénu. It has already been observed that his mind was sound. They soothed him with flattering words and gave him hopes: these are the two snares in which people of both hemispheres are caught. They even brought Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves before him once she had finished dressing. Everything was conducted with the greatest propriety; but despite this decorum, the flashing eyes of Hercules the Ingénu constantly made his beloved lower hers and the company tremble.

They had the greatest difficulty sending him back to his family. Once more they had to call upon the beautiful Saint-Yves's influence; the more she felt her power over him, the more she loved him. She sent him away and was deeply distressed by it. At last, when he had gone, the abbé, who was not only Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves's much older brother but also her guardian, resolved to remove his ward from the advances of this formidable lover. He went to consult the bailiff, who, still intending his son for the abbé's sister, advised him to place the poor girl in a religious house. It was a terrible blow. A woman with no lover would cry out in protest at being put in a convent; but a woman in love, and as virtuous as she was tender! It was enough to drive her to despair.

Back at the priory, the Ingénu recounted everything with his usual candor. He endured the same remonstrances, which had some effect on his mind and none on his senses. But the next day, when he wished to return to his beautiful beloved to reason with her about natural law and conventional law, the bailiff informed him with insulting glee that she was in a convent. "Very well!" he said. "I shall go and reason in the convent." "That cannot be," said the bailiff. He explained at great length what a convent, or a religious community, was; that the word came from the Latin *conventus*, meaning an assembly; and the Huron could not understand why he could not be admitted to the assembly. As soon as he learned that this assembly was a kind of prison where girls were kept locked away—a horrible thing, unknown among the Hurons and the English—he became as furious as his patron Hercules had been when Eurytus, king of Oechalia, no less cruel than the Abbé de Saint-Yves, refused him his beautiful daughter Iole, no less beautiful than the abbé's sister. He wanted to go and set fire to the convent, carry off his beloved, or burn himself with her. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, terrified, abandoned more than ever all hope of seeing her nephew a subdeacon, and said through her tears that he had had the devil in him ever since he was baptized.

### Chapter VII

The Ingénu repels the English.

The Ingénu, sunk in dark and profound melancholy, walked toward the seashore, his double-barreled gun on his shoulder and his great cutlass at his side, firing now and then at a bird and often tempted to fire at himself. But he still loved life because of Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. At times he cursed his uncle, his aunt, all Lower Brittany, and his baptism; at times he blessed them, since they had brought him to know the woman he loved. He resolved to go and burn down the convent, then stopped short for fear of burning his beloved. The waves of the Channel are no more tossed by east and west winds than his heart was by so many contrary impulses.

He was striding along, not knowing where, when he heard the sound of a drum. In the distance he saw a whole crowd, half running toward the shore and the other half running away.

A thousand cries rose on every side. Curiosity and courage instantly hurled him toward the place the clamor came from; he flew there in four bounds. The militia commander, who had dined with him at the prior's, recognized him at once and ran to him with open arms. "Ah! It is the Ingénu! He will fight for us." And the militiamen, who were dying of fear, took heart and cried in their turn, "It is the Ingénu! It is the Ingénu!"

"Gentlemen," he said, "what is the matter? Why are you so frightened? Have your sweethearts been put in convents?" Then a hundred confused voices cried, "Do you not see the English landing?" "Well," the Huron replied, "they are good fellows. They have not taken my beloved from me."

The commander explained that the English were coming to plunder the abbey of the Mountain, drink his uncle's wine, and perhaps carry off Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves; that the little ship on which he had landed in Brittany had come only to reconnoiter the coast; that they were committing acts of hostility without having declared war on the king of France, and that the province lay exposed. "Ah! If that is so, they are violating natural law. Leave it to me. I lived among them for a long time; I know their language; I shall speak to them. I cannot believe they have such an evil design."

During this conversation the English squadron drew near. Off ran the Huron toward it, leaped into a small boat, reached the fleet, boarded the flagship, and asked whether it was true that they had come to ravage the country without having honorably declared war. The admiral and everyone aboard burst out laughing, gave him some punch, and sent him back.

Stung, the Ingénu thought of nothing now but fighting stoutly against his former friends for his countrymen and the prior. The neighboring gentlemen were hurrying in from every direction; he joined them. They had a few cannons; he loaded them, aimed them, and fired them one after another. The English landed; he ran at them, killed three with his own hand, and even wounded the admiral who had mocked him. His valor fired the courage of the whole militia. The English reembarked, and the entire coast rang with cries of victory: "Long live the king! Long live the Ingénu!" Everyone embraced him; everyone hurried to stanch the blood from a few slight wounds he had received. "Ah!" he said, "if Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves were here, she would put a compress on me."

The bailiff, who had hidden in his cellar during the battle, came to congratulate him like everyone else. But he was greatly surprised to hear Hercules the Ingénu say to a dozen willing young men gathered around him, "My friends, it is nothing to have freed the abbey of the Mountain. We must free a girl." All these hotheaded youths caught fire at those few words. Already they were following him in a crowd, running toward the convent. Had the bailiff not warned the commander that very moment, had they not run after the merry band, it would have been all over. They brought the Ingénu back to his uncle and aunt, who bathed him in tears of tenderness.

"I see plainly that you will never be either a subdeacon or a prior," his uncle told him. "You will be an officer even braver than my brother the captain, and probably just as penniless." And Mademoiselle de Kerkabon kept weeping as she embraced him, saying, "He will get himself killed like my brother. It would be far better for him to be a subdeacon."

During the battle the Ingénu had picked up a large purse full of guineas, which the admiral had probably dropped. He had no doubt that with this purse he could buy all Lower Brittany and, above all, make Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves a great lady. Everyone urged him to travel to Versailles to receive the reward for his services. The commander and the senior officers showered him with certificates. His uncle and aunt approved their nephew's journey. He would certainly be presented to the king; that alone would give him immense standing in the province. These two good people added a substantial gift from their savings to the English purse. The Ingénu said to himself, "When I see the king, I shall ask him for Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves's hand in marriage, and he certainly will not refuse me." So he departed to the acclamations of the whole district, smothered in embraces, bathed in his aunt's tears, blessed by his uncle, and commending himself to the beautiful Saint-Yves.

### Chapter VIII

The Ingénu goes to court. He dines with Huguenots on the way.

The Ingénu took the coach toward Saumur, since no other conveyance was available then. On reaching Saumur, he was astonished to find the town almost deserted and to see several families moving away. He was told that six years earlier Saumur had held more than fifteen thousand souls, and now it held fewer than six thousand. He was sure to bring this up over supper at his inn. Several Protestants were at the table; some complained bitterly, others trembled with anger, and others wept as they said,

"… Nos dulcia linquimus arva,
Nos patriam fugimus."

The Ingénu, who knew no Latin, asked to have these words explained. They mean: We abandon our sweet fields, we flee our homeland.

"And why are you fleeing your homeland, gentlemen?" "Because they want us to acknowledge the pope." "And why shouldn't you acknowledge him? Have you no godmothers you wish to marry? For I have been told that he is the one who grants permission." "Ah, sir, this pope says he is master of the dominions of kings." "But, gentlemen, what is your profession?" "Sir, most of us are cloth merchants and manufacturers." "If your pope says he is master of your cloth and your factories, you are quite right not to acknowledge him; but as for kings, that is their affair. Why meddle in it?" Then a little man dressed in black spoke up and set out the company's grievances with great learning. He spoke of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes with such force, and lamented so movingly the fate of fifty thousand fugitive families and fifty thousand others converted by the dragoons, that the Ingénu shed tears in his turn. "How is it," he said, "that so great a king, whose glory reaches even the Hurons, deprives himself of so many hearts that would have loved him, and so many arms that would have served him?"

"Because he has been deceived, like other great kings," replied the man in black. "They have made him believe that, once he had spoken a word, everyone would think as he did; and that he could make us change our religion as his musician Lulli changes the scenery of his operas in an instant. Not only is he already losing five or six hundred thousand very useful subjects, but he is making enemies of them; and King William, who now rules England, has formed several regiments from these very Frenchmen who would have fought for their monarch.

"Such a disaster is all the more astonishing because the reigning pope, to whom Louis XIV is sacrificing a part of his people, is his declared enemy. The two have also been engaged in a violent quarrel for nine years. It has gone so far that France has at last hoped to see the yoke broken that has subjected her to this foreigner for so many centuries, and above all to stop giving him money—the prime mover of this world's affairs. So it seems plain that this great king has been deceived about his interests as well as the extent of his power, and that the magnanimity of his heart has been wounded."

The Ingénu, more and more deeply moved, asked which Frenchmen were deceiving a monarch so dear to the Hurons. "The Jesuits," they answered, "and above all Father de La Chaise, His Majesty's confessor. We must hope that God will one day punish them, and that they will be driven out as they are driving us out. Can any misfortune equal ours? Monsieur de Louvois sends Jesuits and dragoons against us on every side."

"Well then, gentlemen," replied the Ingénu, who could no longer contain himself, "I am going to Versailles to receive the reward due for my services. I shall speak to this Monsieur de Louvois; I am told he is the one who wages war from his study. I shall see the king and make the truth known to him; no one can possibly resist that truth once he feels it. I shall soon return to marry Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, and I invite you to the wedding." These good people now took him for a great nobleman traveling *incognito* by coach. A few took him for the king's fool.

At the table sat a Jesuit in disguise who served as a spy for the Reverend Father de La Chaise. He reported everything to him, and Father de La Chaise passed the information to Monsieur de Louvois. The spy wrote his letter. The Ingénu and the letter arrived at Versailles almost at the same time.

### Chapter IX

The Ingénu arrives at Versailles. His reception at court.

The Ingénu alights from a "chamber pot"[a] in the kitchen courtyard. He asks the sedan-chair carriers at what hour one can see the king. The carriers laugh in his face, just as the English admiral had done. He treated them in the same fashion and beat them; they meant to return the favor, and the scene would have turned bloody had a royal bodyguard, a Breton gentleman, not come by and scattered the rabble. "Sir," the traveler said to him, "you seem to me a worthy man. I am the nephew of the prior of Our Lady of the Mountain; I have killed Englishmen; I have come to speak to the king. Please take me to his room." The guardsman, delighted to find a brave man from his own province who seemed unfamiliar with the ways of court, explained that one did not speak to the king in that fashion, and that one had to be presented by His Lordship de Louvois. "Well then! Take me to this Lord de Louvois, who will doubtless conduct me to His Majesty." "It is even harder," replied the guardsman, "to speak to His Lordship de Louvois than to His Majesty; but I shall take you to Monsieur Alexandre, chief clerk at the War Office. It is as good as speaking to the minister." So they go to this Monsieur Alexandre, the chief clerk, but could not gain admittance: he was busy with a lady of the court, and there were orders to admit no one. "Well," said the guardsman, "all is not lost. Let us go to Monsieur Alexandre's chief clerk; it is as good as speaking to Monsieur Alexandre himself."

[a] A conveyance that runs from Paris to Versailles and resembles a small covered tipcart.

The astonished Huron follows him. They remain together for half an hour in a little antechamber. "What does all this mean?" said the Ingénu. "Is everyone invisible in this country? It is far easier to fight the English in Lower Brittany than to find the people one has business with at Versailles." To relieve his boredom he told his fellow Breton about his love. But the striking of the hour called the bodyguard back to his post. They promised to meet again the next day, and the Ingénu stayed another half hour in the antechamber, dreaming of Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves and of the difficulty of speaking to kings and chief clerks.

At last the great man appeared. "Sir," the Ingénu said to him, "if I had waited to repel the English as long as you have made me wait for an audience, they would now be ravaging Lower Brittany at their leisure." These words struck the clerk. At last he said to the Breton, "What do you want?" "A reward," the other said. "Here are my credentials." He spread out all his certificates before him. The clerk read them and said that he would probably be granted permission to buy a lieutenant's commission. "What! I am to give money for having driven back the English? Pay for the right to get myself killed for you, while you sit here calmly receiving visitors? You must be joking. I want a cavalry company for nothing; I want the king to take Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves out of the convent and give her to me in marriage; I want to speak to the king on behalf of fifty thousand families I intend to restore to him. In short, I want to be useful: give me employment and advancement."

"What is your name, sir, you who speak so loudly?" "Oh, indeed!" the Ingénu retorted. "So you have not read my certificates? Is that how things are done? My name is Hercule de Kerkabon; I am baptized; I am staying at the Blue Dial, and I shall complain of you to the king." The clerk concluded, like the people of Saumur, that he was not quite sound in the head, and paid little attention to him.

That same day, the Reverend Father de La Chaise, Louis XIV's confessor, had received his spy's letter, accusing the Breton Kerkabon of favoring the Huguenots in his heart and condemning the Jesuits' conduct. Monsieur de Louvois, for his part, had received a letter from the inquisitive bailiff, who portrayed the Ingénu as a scoundrel bent on burning convents and carrying off young women.

The Ingénu, after strolling through the gardens of Versailles, where he grew bored, and supping like a Huron and a Lower Breton, had gone to bed in the sweet hope of seeing the king the next day, obtaining Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves in marriage, securing at least a cavalry company, and putting an end to the persecution of the Huguenots. He was cradling himself in these pleasing thoughts when the constabulary entered his room. They first seized his double-barreled gun and his great saber. An inventory was made of his ready money, and he was taken to the fortress built by King Charles V, son of John II, near the Rue Saint-Antoine, at the Porte des Tournelles.

What was the Ingénu's astonishment on the way? I leave you to imagine it. At first he thought it a dream. He remained in a stupor; then, suddenly seized by a fury that doubled his strength, he takes two of the men escorting him in the carriage by the throat, hurls them through the door, leaps out after them, and drags along the third, who was trying to restrain him. The effort brings him down; they bind him and lift him back into the carriage. "So this," he said, "is what one earns by driving the English out of Lower Brittany! What would you say, beautiful Saint-Yves, if you saw me in this state?"

At last they reach the lodging appointed for him. He is carried in silence into the room where he is to be confined, like a dead man borne into a graveyard. This room was already occupied by an old recluse of Port-Royal named Gordon, who had been languishing there for two years. "Here," the head of the guards told him, "I have brought you some company." At once the huge bolts were shot back across the thick door, sheathed in broad iron bars. The two prisoners were left cut off from the whole universe.

### Chapter X

The Ingénu imprisoned in the Bastille with a Jansenist.

Monsieur Gordon was a hale and serene old man who knew two great things: how to bear adversity and how to comfort the unfortunate. He approached his companion with an open, compassionate air and, embracing him, said, "Whoever you may be, you who have come to share my tomb, be assured that I shall always forget myself to ease your torments in this infernal abyss into which we have been plunged. Let us adore the Providence that has brought us here, suffer in peace, and hope." These words worked upon the Ingénu's soul like those English drops that recall a dying man to life and make him half open his astonished eyes.

After their first courtesies, Gordon, without pressing him to explain the cause of his misfortune, inspired him, by the gentleness of his conversation and the sympathy two unhappy men feel for one another, with a desire to open his heart and lay down the burden that oppressed him. But he could not guess the reason for his misfortune: it seemed to him an effect without a cause; and good old Gordon was as astonished as he was.

"God must have great designs for you," the Jansenist told the Huron, "since he has brought you from Lake Ontario to England and France, had you baptized in Lower Brittany, and placed you here for your salvation." "Upon my word," replied the Ingénu, "I think the devil alone has had a hand in my destiny. My countrymen in America would never have treated me with the barbarity I am suffering here; they have no notion of it. They are called *savages*: they are rough men of honor, and the men of this country are polished scoundrels. I am certainly very surprised to have come from another world to be shut up in this one behind four bolts with a priest; but I reflect on the prodigious number of men who leave one hemisphere to get themselves killed in the other, or are shipwrecked on the way and eaten by fish. I do not see God's gracious designs for all those people."

Their dinner was brought through a hatch. The conversation turned to Providence, to royal warrants of imprisonment, and to the art of not succumbing to the misfortunes to which every man is exposed in this world. "I have been here for two years," said the old man, "with no consolation but myself and my books; I have not had a moment of ill humor."

"Ah, Monsieur Gordon!" cried the Ingénu. "Then you are not in love with your godmother? If you knew Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves as I do, you would be in despair." At these words he could not hold back his tears, and then felt a little less oppressed. "But," he said, "why do tears bring relief? It seems to me they ought to have the opposite effect." "My son, everything in us is physical," said the good old man. "Every secretion does the body good; and whatever relieves the body relieves the soul. We are the machines of Providence."

The Ingénu, who, as we have said several times, possessed a great fund of intelligence, reflected deeply on this idea, whose seed he seemed to carry within himself. Afterward he asked his companion why his machine had been behind four bolts for two years. "Through efficacious grace," replied Gordon. "I am considered a Jansenist; I knew Arnauld and Nicole; the Jesuits have persecuted us. We believe the pope is merely a bishop like any other; and that is why Father de La Chaise obtained from the king, his penitent, an order depriving me, without any judicial process, of mankind's most precious possession: liberty." "How very strange," said the Ingénu. "All the unhappy people I have met owe their unhappiness to the pope alone.

"As for your efficacious grace, I confess I understand nothing about it; but I consider it a great grace that God has let me find, in my misfortune, a man like you, who pours into my heart consolations I thought myself incapable of feeling."

Each day their conversation grew more interesting and instructive. The souls of the two prisoners became attached to one another. The old man knew much, and the young man wished to learn much. After a month he took up geometry; he devoured it. Gordon had him read Rohault's physics, which was still in fashion, and he had the good sense to find nothing in it but uncertainties.

Next he read the first volume of the *Search for Truth*. This new light illuminated him. "What!" he said. "Our imagination and our senses deceive us to that degree! What! Objects do not form our ideas, and we cannot give ourselves ideas either!" When he had read the second volume, he was less pleased, and concluded that it is easier to destroy than to build.

His fellow prisoner, astonished that an ignorant young man should make a reflection possible only to practiced minds, formed a high opinion of his intelligence and grew still more attached to him.

"Your Malebranche," the Ingénu told him one day, "seems to me to have written half his book with his reason, and the other half with his imagination and prejudices."

A few days later Gordon asked him, "What, then, do you think of the soul, of the way we receive our ideas, of our will, of grace, of free will?" "Nothing," the Ingénu answered. "If I thought anything, it would be that we are under the power of the eternal Being, like the stars and the elements; that he does everything in us; that we are little wheels in the immense machine of which he is the soul; that he acts through general laws, not particular intentions. That alone seems intelligible to me; all the rest is an abyss of darkness."

"But, my son, that would make God the author of sin." "But, Father, your efficacious grace would also make God the author of sin; for it is certain that all those denied that grace would sin, and is not whoever delivers us to evil the author of evil?"

This candor greatly embarrassed the good man. He felt that his efforts to extricate himself from this mire were vain; and he piled up so many words that seemed to have a meaning and had none—in the manner of physical premotion—that the Ingénu pitied him. This question plainly touched on the origin of good and evil; and then poor Gordon had to review Pandora's box, the egg of Orosmade pierced by Arimane, the enmity between Typhon and Osiris, and finally original sin; and the two of them ran through this profound night without ever meeting. Yet in the end this romance of the soul turned their eyes from the contemplation of their own misery, and, by a strange enchantment, the multitude of calamities spread over the universe diminished their sense of their own sufferings. They dared not complain when everything suffered.

But in the stillness of the night, the image of the beautiful Saint-Yves effaced every thought of metaphysics and morality from her lover's mind. He would wake with his eyes wet with tears; and the old Jansenist forgot his efficacious grace, the abbé de Saint-Cyran, and Jansenius, to comfort a young man whom he believed to be in mortal sin.

After their reading, after their reasoning, they would speak again of their adventures; and after speaking of them to no purpose, they would read together or separately. The young man's mind grew stronger and stronger. In mathematics especially, he would have gone very far but for the distractions Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves caused him.

He read histories; they saddened him. The world seemed to him too wicked and too wretched. Indeed, history is nothing but a picture of crimes and misfortunes. The multitude of innocent, peaceable men always disappears on these vast stages. The characters are all depraved men of ambition. It seems that history, like tragedy, can please only when it is quickened by passions, atrocities, and great calamities; without them it languishes. Clio must be armed with a dagger, like Melpomene.

Although the history of France is full of horrors, like every other history, he nevertheless found it so revolting in its beginnings, so dry in its middle, so petty even in the time of Henry IV, always so barren of great monuments, so alien to those splendid discoveries that have brought distinction to other nations, that he had to struggle against boredom to read all these accounts of obscure calamities confined to one corner of the world.

Gordon thought as he did. Both laughed with pity whenever the sovereigns of Fezensac, Fesansaguet, and Astarac came up. Indeed, such study could be useful only to their heirs, if they had any. The glorious centuries of the Roman republic made him indifferent for a time to the rest of the earth. The spectacle of Rome, victorious and giving laws to nations, occupied his whole soul. He grew fervent as he contemplated this people, governed for seven hundred years by a passion for liberty and glory.

So passed the days, the weeks, the months; and he would have thought himself happy in this abode of despair had he not been in love.

His good heart also felt tender concern for the prior of Our Lady of the Mountain and the sensitive Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "What will they think," he often repeated, "when they have no news of me? They will think me ungrateful." This thought tormented him; he pitied those who loved him far more than he pitied himself.

### Chapter XI

How the Ingénu develops his gifts.

Reading enlarges the soul, and an enlightened friend consoles it. Our prisoner enjoyed both these blessings, which he had never suspected before. "I am tempted," he said, "to believe in metamorphoses, for I have been changed from a brute into a man." With a portion of his money that he was allowed to use, he assembled a choice library. His friend encouraged him to put his reflections in writing. Here is what he wrote about ancient history:

"I imagine that nations were for a long time as I was, that they acquired knowledge only very late, and that for centuries they concerned themselves solely with the passing moment, very little with the past, and never with the future. I have traveled five or six hundred leagues through Canada and found not a single monument; no one there knows anything of what his great-grandfather did. Might this not be man's natural condition? The human race on this continent seems to me superior to that on the other. For several centuries it has enlarged its existence through the arts and knowledge. Is this because it has beards on its chins, and God has denied beards to the Americans? I do not think so, for I see that the Chinese have scarcely any beard and have cultivated the arts for more than five thousand years. Indeed, if they have more than four thousand years of annals, the nation must have been united and flourishing for more than fifty centuries.

"One thing strikes me above all in this ancient history of China: almost everything in it is plausible and natural. I admire it for containing nothing miraculous.

"Why have all the other nations given themselves fabulous origins? The old chroniclers of French history, who are not very old, derive the French from a Francus, son of Hector; the Romans claimed descent from a Phrygian, though their language contained not a single word with the least connection to the language of Phrygia; the gods had lived in Egypt for ten thousand years, and the devils in Scythia, where they had fathered the Huns. Before Thucydides I see nothing but romances like the Amadis tales, and much less entertaining. Everywhere there are apparitions, oracles, prodigies, spells, metamorphoses, dreams interpreted and determining the fate of the greatest empires and the smallest states: here animals speak, there animals are worshiped, gods are turned into men, and men into gods. Ah! If we must have fables, let them at least be emblems of truth! I love the fables of philosophers, I laugh at those of children, and I hate those of impostors."

One day he came upon a history of the Emperor Justinian. In it he read that certain unlettered men of Constantinople had issued, in very bad Greek, an edict against the greatest commander of the age, because this hero had spoken these words in the heat of conversation: "Truth shines by its own light, and minds are not enlightened by the flames of the stake." The unlettered men declared that this proposition was heretical, savored of heresy, and that the contrary axiom was catholic, universal, and Greek: "Minds are enlightened only by the flames of the stake, and truth cannot shine by its own light." These linen-robed men thus condemned several of the commander's discourses and issued an edict.

"What!" cried the Ingénu. "Edicts issued by such people!" "They are not edicts," replied Gordon, "but counter-edicts, which everyone in Constantinople laughed at, the emperor first of all. He was a wise prince who had managed to restrict the unlettered, linen-robed men to doing good alone. He knew that these gentlemen and several other shrine-bearers had exhausted the patience of his imperial predecessors with counter-edicts on graver matters." "He did very well," said the Ingénu. "Shrine-bearers must be supported and restrained."

He wrote down many other reflections that alarmed old Gordon. "What!" he said to himself. "I have spent fifty years acquiring knowledge, and I fear I cannot attain the natural good sense of this almost savage child! I tremble to think that I have laboriously fortified prejudices; he listens only to simple nature."

The good man had a few of those little books of criticism, those periodical pamphlets in which men incapable of producing anything disparage the works of others, in which the Visés insult the Racines, and the Faydits the Fénelons. The Ingénu looked through a few of them. "I compare them," he said, "to certain little flies that lay their eggs in the backsides of the finest horses: that does not stop the horses from running." The two philosophers scarcely deigned to glance at these excrements of literature.

Soon they read the elements of astronomy together; the Ingénu sent for celestial globes, and this great spectacle enchanted him. "How hard it is," he said, "to begin to know the heavens only when I am robbed of the right to contemplate them! Jupiter and Saturn roll through those immense spaces; millions of suns light billions of worlds; and in the corner of earth where I have been cast, there are beings who deprive me, a seeing, thinking being, of all those worlds my sight could reach, and of the one in which God had me born! The light made for the whole universe is lost to me. It was not hidden from me beneath the northern skies where I spent my childhood and youth. Without you, my dear Gordon, I should be living here in nothingness."

### Chapter XII

What the Ingénu thinks of plays.

The young Ingénu resembled one of those vigorous trees that, born in barren soil, spread their roots and branches in a short time when transplanted into favorable ground; and it was extraordinary indeed that a prison should be that ground.

Among the books that occupied the two prisoners' leisure were poems, translations of Greek tragedies, and a few French plays. Verses that spoke of love brought pleasure and pain together into the Ingénu's soul. They all spoke to him of his dear Saint-Yves. The fable of the Two Pigeons pierced his heart; he was far indeed from being able to return to his dovecote.

Molière enchanted him. He taught him the ways of Paris and of humankind. "Which of his comedies do you prefer?" "*Tartuffe*, without question." "I agree with you," said Gordon. "It was a Tartuffe who plunged me into this dungeon, and perhaps Tartuffes have brought about your misfortune."

"What do you think of these Greek tragedies?" "Good for Greeks," said the Ingénu. But when he read the modern *Iphigenia*, *Phaedra*, *Andromache*, and *Athalie*, he was in raptures: he sighed, he shed tears, he knew them by heart without ever meaning to learn them.

"Read *Rodogune*," Gordon told him. "They say it is the masterpiece of the theater; the other plays that gave you so much pleasure are little enough in comparison." On the very first page, the young man said, "This is not by the same author." "How can you tell?" "I do not know yet; but these verses reach neither my ear nor my heart." "Oh! The verses are nothing," Gordon replied. The Ingénu answered, "Then why write them?"

After reading the play very attentively, with no purpose but enjoyment, he looked at his friend with dry, astonished eyes and did not know what to say. At last, pressed to give an account of what he had felt, he answered as follows: "I scarcely understood the beginning; the middle revolted me; the last scene moved me greatly, though it seems implausible. I cared about no one, and I have not remembered twenty lines—I, who remember every one when they please me."

"Yet this play is considered the best we have." "If so," he replied, "perhaps it is like many people who do not deserve their positions. After all, this is a matter of taste; mine cannot yet be formed. I may be mistaken; but you know I am fairly accustomed to saying what I think, or rather what I feel. I suspect that there is often illusion, fashion, and caprice in men's judgments. I have spoken as nature prompted me; perhaps nature is very imperfect in me, but perhaps most men also consult her too seldom." Then he recited verses from *Iphigenia*, which filled his thoughts; and though his delivery was poor, he put such truth and tenderness into them that he made the old Jansenist weep. Next he read *Cinna*; he did not weep, but he admired it.

### Chapter XIII

The beautiful Saint-Yves goes to Versailles.

While our unfortunate young man found more enlightenment than consolation; while his gifts, so long stifled, unfolded with such speed and force; while nature, perfecting herself within him, avenged him for the outrages of fortune—what had become of the prior and his good sister, and of the beautiful, secluded Saint-Yves? In the first month they were anxious, and by the third they were plunged in sorrow; false conjectures and groundless rumors alarmed them; after six months they believed him dead. At last Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Kerkabon learned, through an old letter a royal guardsman had written to Brittany, that a young man resembling the Ingénu had arrived at Versailles one evening, but had been carried off during the night, and that no one had heard of him since.

"Alas!" said Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "Our nephew must have done something foolish and brought trouble upon himself. He is young, he is a Lower Breton; he cannot know how one ought to behave at court. My dear brother, I have never seen Versailles or Paris; here is a fine opportunity. Perhaps we shall find our poor nephew: he is our brother's son, and it is our duty to help him. Who knows whether we may not finally succeed in making him a subdeacon, once the ardor of youth has subsided? He had a great aptitude for learning. Do you remember how he reasoned about the Old and New *Testaments*? We are responsible for his soul; we had him baptized; his dear beloved Saint-Yves spends her days weeping. Truly, we must go to Paris. If he is hiding in one of those nasty houses of pleasure I have heard so many stories about, we shall get him out." The prior was moved by his sister's words. He went to see the bishop of Saint-Malo, who had baptized the Huron, and asked for his protection and advice. The prelate approved the journey. He gave the prior letters of recommendation to Father de La Chaise, the king's confessor, who held the foremost dignity in the kingdom; to Harlay, archbishop of Paris; and to Bossuet, bishop of Meaux.

At last the brother and sister set off; but when they reached Paris, they found themselves lost as in a vast labyrinth, without a guiding thread or a way out. Their means were modest, and every day they needed carriages to go in search of information, and they discovered nothing.

The prior called upon the Reverend Father de La Chaise; he was with Mademoiselle Du Tron and could not grant audiences to priors. He went to the archbishop's door; the prelate was closeted with the beautiful Madame de Lesdiguières on Church business. He hurried to the bishop of Meaux's country house; the bishop was examining Madame Guyon's mystical love with Mademoiselle de Mauléon. Nevertheless, he managed to gain a hearing from these two prelates; both declared that they could not concern themselves with his nephew, since he was not a subdeacon.

At last he saw the Jesuit, who received him with open arms and assured him that he had always held him in particular esteem, never having known him. He swore that the Society had always been devoted to Lower Bretons. "But," he said, "might your nephew have the misfortune to be a Huguenot?" "Certainly not, Reverend Father." "Could he be a Jansenist?" "I can assure Your Reverence that he is scarcely a Christian: we baptized him about eleven months ago." "Very good, very good; we shall look after him. Is your benefice substantial?" "Oh! A very small thing, and our nephew costs us a great deal." "Are there any Jansenists in your neighborhood? Take great care, my dear prior: they are more dangerous than Huguenots and atheists." "Reverend Father, we have none; no one at Our Lady of the Mountain knows what Jansenism is." "So much the better. Go now; there is nothing I will not do for you." He affectionately dismissed the prior and thought no more about him.

Time passed; the prior and his good sister despaired.

Meanwhile the accursed bailiff was pressing the marriage of his great oaf of a son to the beautiful Saint-Yves, who had been brought out of the convent expressly for this purpose. She still loved her dear godson as much as she detested the husband offered to her. The affront of being put in a convent had increased her passion; the order to marry the bailiff's son brought it to its height. Regret, tenderness, and horror convulsed her soul. Love, as everyone knows, is far more ingenious and daring in a young girl than affection in an old prior and an aunt past forty-five. Besides, she had gained considerable experience in her convent through the novels she had read in secret. The beautiful Saint-Yves remembered the letter a bodyguard had written to Lower Brittany, which had been talked of throughout the province. She resolved to go to Versailles herself to make inquiries, to throw herself at the ministers' feet if her husband was in prison, as people said, and to obtain justice for him. Something secretly told her that at court a pretty girl is refused nothing; but she did not know what it cost.

Her resolution taken, she is comforted, she is calm; she no longer rebuffs her foolish suitor; she welcomes the detestable father-in-law, is affectionate to her brother, and spreads joy through the house. Then, on the day appointed for the ceremony, she leaves secretly at four in the morning with her little wedding presents and all she has been able to gather. Her arrangements were so well made that she was already more than ten leagues away when they entered her room around noon. Surprise and consternation were great. The inquisitive bailiff asked more questions that day than he had asked all week; the husband was left looking more foolish than ever. The abbé de Saint-Yves, in his anger, decided to pursue his sister. The bailiff and his son wished to accompany him. Thus destiny was conducting almost that entire corner of Lower Brittany to Paris.

The beautiful Saint-Yves had little doubt she would be followed. She was on horseback, and skillfully asked the couriers whether they had met a fat abbé, an enormous bailiff, and a young simpleton hurrying along the road to Paris. Learning on the third day that they were not far behind, she took a different route, and had skill and good fortune enough to reach Versailles while they searched for her in Paris to no purpose.

But how was she to manage at Versailles? Young, beautiful, without advice or support, unknown, exposed to every danger—how could she dare to seek out a royal guardsman? She thought of applying to a Jesuit of the lower ranks; there were Jesuits for every station in life. Just as God, they said, had given different foods to the different species of animals, he had given the king his confessor, whom all the petitioners for benefices called *the head of the Gallican Church*; next came the confessors of the princesses; the ministers had none—they were not such fools. There were Jesuits for the common household, and above all Jesuits for the chambermaids, through whom the secrets of their mistresses were learned; and this was no small employment. The beautiful Saint-Yves applied to one of these last, called Father Tout-à-tous. She confessed to him, told him her adventures, her situation, and her danger, and begged him to lodge her with some good devout woman who would shelter her from temptations.

Father Tout-à-tous took her to the wife of an officer of the royal cup service, one of his most trusted penitents. Once there, she hastened to win this woman's confidence and friendship; she inquired after the Breton guardsman and sent him a request to visit her. Learning from him that her lover had been carried off after speaking to a chief clerk, she runs to that clerk. The sight of a beautiful woman softened him, for we must admit that God created women only to tame men.

The softened pen-pusher confessed everything. "Your lover has been in the Bastille for nearly a year, and without you he might remain there all his life." The tender Saint-Yves fainted. When she had recovered her senses, the pen-pusher told her, "I have no influence to do good; all my power extends only to doing harm now and then. Take my advice: go to Monsieur de Saint-Pouange, who does both good and harm, the cousin and favorite of His Lordship de Louvois. This minister has two souls: Monsieur de Saint-Pouange is one, Madame Dufresnoy the other; but she is not at Versailles just now. Your only course is to soften the protector I have pointed out." The beautiful Saint-Yves, divided between a little joy and extreme sorrow, between some hope and mournful fears, pursued by her brother, adoring her lover, wiping away her tears and shedding them again, trembling, weakened, and taking courage once more, hurried to Monsieur de Saint-Pouange's house.

### Chapter XIV

The progress of the Ingénu's mind.

The Ingénu made rapid progress in knowledge, and above all in the knowledge of humanity. His mind's swift development owed almost as much to his upbringing among savages as to the temper of his soul; for, having learned nothing in childhood, he had learned no prejudices. His understanding, never bent by error, had kept all its uprightness. He saw things as they are, whereas the ideas we are given in childhood make us see them all our lives as they are not. "Your persecutors are abominable," he told his friend Gordon. "I pity you for being oppressed, but I also pity you for being a Jansenist. Every sect seems to me a rallying point for error. Tell me, are there sects in geometry?" "No, my dear child," good Gordon told him with a sigh. "All men agree on truth when it is demonstrated, but they are too divided over obscure truths." "Say rather obscure falsehoods. If there had been a single truth hidden in your heaps of arguments, endlessly rehashed for so many centuries, surely it would have been discovered, and the whole world would have agreed at least on that point. If this truth were as necessary as the sun is to the earth, it would shine as brightly. It is an absurdity, an outrage against humankind, an assault upon the infinite and supreme Being, to say: there is a truth essential to man, and God has hidden it." Everything this ignorant young man, taught by nature, said made a profound impression on the mind of the unfortunate old scholar. "Can it really be true," he cried, "that I have made myself miserable for chimeras? I am far more certain of my misfortune than of efficacious grace. I have spent my days reasoning about the freedom of God and humankind, but I have lost my own; neither Saint Augustine nor Saint Prosper will draw me from the abyss where I lie."

The Ingénu, giving his nature free rein, said at last, "May I speak to you with bold frankness? Those who bring persecution upon themselves for these empty disputes of the schools seem to me unwise; those who persecute seem to me monsters."

The two prisoners were entirely agreed on the injustice of their imprisonment. "I am a hundred times more to be pitied than you," said the Ingénu. "I was born free as the air; I had two lives, liberty and the object of my love: both are taken from me. Here we both are in irons, without knowing the reason and without being able to ask it. I lived as a Huron for twenty years; people call them barbarians because they avenge themselves on their enemies, but they have never oppressed their friends. I had scarcely set foot in France before I shed my blood for her; perhaps I saved a province, and as my reward I have been swallowed up in this tomb of the living, where I should have died of rage without you. Are there no laws in this country, then? Men are condemned without a hearing! It is not so in England. Ah! It was not the English I should have fought." Thus his dawning philosophy could not subdue nature outraged in the first of her rights, and allowed his just anger free course.

His companion did not contradict him. Absence always increases unsatisfied love, and philosophy does not diminish it. He spoke of his dear Saint-Yves as often as of morality and metaphysics. The more his feelings were refined, the more he loved. He read a few new novels; he found few that pictured the state of his soul. He felt that his heart always went beyond what he read. "Ah!" he said. "Almost all these authors have nothing but wit and art." At last the good Jansenist priest gradually became the confidant of his love. Before, he had known love only as a sin one admits in confession. He learned to know it as a feeling as noble as it is tender, which can elevate the soul as much as soften it, and sometimes even produce virtues. Finally, as the last marvel, a Huron was converting a Jansenist.

### Chapter XV

The beautiful Saint-Yves resists delicate proposals.

The beautiful Saint-Yves, still more tenderhearted than her lover, therefore went to see Monsieur de Saint-Pouange, accompanied by the friend with whom she was staying, both of them concealed beneath their hoods. The first thing she saw at the door was her brother, the abbé de Saint-Yves, coming out. She took fright, but her devout friend reassured her. "It is precisely because someone has spoken against you that you must speak for yourself. Be sure that in this country accusers are always in the right unless you hurry to confound them. Besides, unless I am very much mistaken, your presence will have more effect than your brother's words."

Give a passionate woman in love the slightest encouragement, and she is fearless. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves presented herself at the audience. Her youth, her charms, her tender eyes wet with a few tears drew every gaze. Each courtier of the deputy minister forgot the idol of power for a moment to contemplate the idol of beauty. Saint-Pouange had her shown into a private room; she spoke with feeling and grace. Saint-Pouange felt himself moved. She trembled; he reassured her. "Come back this evening," he told her. "Your affairs deserve thought, and we must discuss them at leisure. There are too many people here; these audiences are dispatched too quickly. I must talk with you thoroughly about everything that concerns you." Then, having praised her beauty and her feelings, he urged her to come at seven that evening.

She did not fail to appear. Her devout friend accompanied her again, but remained in the drawing room reading *The Christian Tutor*, while Saint-Pouange and the beautiful Saint-Yves were in the inner study. "Would you believe, mademoiselle," he began, "that your brother came to ask me for a lettre de cachet against you? In truth, I would sooner issue one to send him back to Lower Brittany." "Alas, monsieur, your offices must be very free with lettres de cachet, if people come from the farthest corners of the kingdom to solicit them as they would pensions. I am very far from asking for one against my brother. I have much to complain of in him, but I respect people's liberty. I ask for the liberty of a man I wish to marry, a man to whom the king owes the preservation of a province, who can serve him well, and who is the son of an officer killed in his service. What is he accused of? How could he have been treated so cruelly without a hearing?"

The deputy minister then showed her the letter from the Jesuit spy and the one from the treacherous bailiff. "What! There are such monsters on earth! And they mean to force me to marry the ridiculous son of a ridiculous, wicked man! And it is on reports like these that the fate of citizens is decided here!" She fell to her knees and, sobbing, begged for the freedom of the brave man who adored her. In this posture her charms appeared to their greatest advantage. She was so beautiful that Saint-Pouange, losing all shame, hinted that she would succeed if she began by giving him the first fruits of what she was reserving for her lover. Terrified and mortified, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves long pretended not to understand him; he had to speak more plainly. A word at first ventured with restraint led to a stronger one, followed by another still more explicit. He offered not only to revoke the lettre de cachet, but rewards, money, honors, positions; and the more he promised, the more his desire not to be refused increased.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves wept, choking, half fallen back on a sofa, scarcely believing what she saw and heard. Saint-Pouange, in his turn, fell to his knees before her. He was not without attractions, and might not have frightened off a heart less firmly given elsewhere; but Saint-Yves adored her lover and believed it a dreadful crime to betray him in order to serve him. Saint-Pouange redoubled his entreaties and promises. At last he so lost his head that he declared this was the only way to free from prison the man in whom she took so ardent and tender an interest. This strange interview dragged on. Reading her *Christian Tutor*, the pious woman in the antechamber said, "My God! What can they have been doing in there for two hours? Monseigneur de Saint-Pouange has never granted so long an audience. Perhaps he has refused the poor girl everything, since she is still begging him."

At last her companion emerged from the inner study, utterly distraught, unable to speak, reflecting deeply on the character of the great and the half-great, who so lightly sacrifice the liberty of men and the honor of women.

She did not say a word all the way home. Once at her friend's house, she burst out and told her everything. The devout woman made great signs of the cross. "My dear friend, tomorrow without fail we must consult Father Tout-à-tous, our spiritual director. He has considerable influence with Monsieur de Saint-Pouange; he hears the confessions of several maidservants in his household. He is a pious and accommodating man, who also directs ladies of rank. Put yourself in his hands; that is what I do, and it has always served me well. We poor women need a man to guide us." "Very well, then, my dear friend! Tomorrow I will go and see Father Tout-à-tous."

### Chapter XVI

She consults a Jesuit.

As soon as the beautiful, desolate Saint-Yves was with her good confessor, she confided that a powerful and pleasure-loving man had offered to release from prison the man she was to marry lawfully, and that he demanded a high price for his service; that she felt a terrible revulsion at such unfaithfulness, and that, were only her own life at stake, she would sacrifice it rather than yield.

"What an abominable sinner!" Father Tout-à-tous told her. "You really ought to tell me the name of this vile man. He is certainly some Jansenist; I will denounce him to His Reverence Father de La Chaise, who will have him lodged where the dear person you are to marry is now."

After much embarrassment and long wavering, the poor girl at last named Saint-Pouange.

"Monseigneur de Saint-Pouange!" cried the Jesuit. "Ah, my daughter, that is another matter altogether. He is a cousin of the greatest minister we have ever had, an upright man, a protector of the good cause, a good Christian. He cannot have entertained such a thought; you must have misunderstood." "Ah, Father, I understood only too well. Whatever I do, I am lost. I can choose only between misery and shame. Either my lover must remain buried alive, or I must make myself unworthy to live. I cannot let him perish, and I cannot save him."

Father Tout-à-tous tried to calm her with these gentle words:

"First, my daughter, never use that expression, *my lover*. There is something worldly about it that might offend God. Say *my husband*; for although he is not yet your husband, you regard him as such, and nothing could be more proper.

"Second, although he is your husband in thought and in hope, he is not so in fact. Thus you would not be committing adultery, an enormous sin that must always be avoided as far as possible.

"Third, actions carry no sinful guilt when the intention is pure, and nothing could be purer than freeing your husband.

"Fourth, you have examples from sacred antiquity that may serve wonderfully to guide your conduct. Saint Augustine relates that during the proconsulship of Septimius Acyndinus, in the year of our salvation 340, a poor man, unable to give Caesar what belonged to Caesar, was condemned to death, as is just, despite the maxim, *Where there is nothing, the king loses his rights*. A pound of gold was at issue. The condemned man had a wife in whom God had placed beauty and prudence. A rich old man promised to give the lady a pound of gold, and even more, on condition that he commit the filthy sin with her. The lady did not believe she was doing wrong by saving her husband. Saint Augustine heartily approves her generous submission. It is true that the rich old man deceived her, and perhaps her husband was hanged all the same; but she had done everything in her power to save his life.

"Be sure, my daughter, that when a Jesuit quotes Saint Augustine to you, the saint must be entirely right. I am not advising you to do anything; you are sensible. It is to be presumed that you will be of use to your husband. Monseigneur de Saint-Pouange is an honorable man; he will not deceive you. That is all I can tell you. I will pray to God for you, and I hope that everything will turn out to his greater glory."

The beautiful Saint-Yves, no less frightened by the Jesuit's discourse than by the deputy minister's proposals, returned in distraction to her friend's house. She was tempted to escape through death both the horror of leaving the lover she adored in dreadful captivity and the shame of freeing him at the cost of what she held dearest, what should belong only to that unfortunate lover.

### Chapter XVII

She succumbs through virtue.

She begged her friend to kill her; but this woman, no less indulgent than the Jesuit, spoke to her still more plainly. "Alas!" she said. "Business is seldom done any other way at this court, so charming, so gallant, so renowned. The humblest posts and the highest have often been granted only at the price demanded of you. Listen, you have inspired me with friendship and trust. I will admit to you that if I had been as difficult as you are, my husband would not enjoy the little post that keeps him alive. He knows it, and far from resenting it, he sees me as his benefactress and regards himself as a creature of my making. Do you imagine that all those who have governed provinces, or even commanded armies, owed their honors and fortunes to their services alone? Some of them owe these things to their ladies, their wives. Love has solicited the dignities of war, and the post has gone to the husband of the most beautiful woman.

"Your situation has a much stronger claim on our feelings: you must restore your lover to the light of day and marry him. It is a sacred duty you have to fulfill. No one has blamed the great and beautiful ladies I am telling you about. You will be applauded; people will say you allowed yourself a weakness only through an excess of virtue." "Ah, what virtue!" cried the beautiful Saint-Yves. "What a labyrinth of iniquities! What a country! And how I am learning to know men! A Father de La Chaise and a ridiculous bailiff have my lover put in prison; my family persecutes me; the only hand held out to me in my disaster is there to dishonor me. One Jesuit has ruined a brave man; another Jesuit wants to ruin me. I am surrounded by nothing but traps, and I am on the brink of falling into misery. I must kill myself or speak to the king. I will throw myself at his feet as he passes on his way to Mass or the theater."

"They will not let you approach him," her good friend told her. "And if you had the misfortune to speak, that Louvois and the Reverend Father de La Chaise could bury you in the depths of a convent for the rest of your days."

While this worthy person was thus deepening the perplexities of that despairing soul and driving the dagger into her heart, a special messenger arrived from Monsieur de Saint-Pouange with a letter and two beautiful pendant earrings. Saint-Yves rejected everything in tears, but her friend took charge of it.

As soon as the messenger had left, the confidante read the letter, which proposed a little supper for the two friends that evening. Saint-Yves swore she would not go. The devout woman wanted her to try on the two diamond earrings. Saint-Yves would not permit it; she struggled all day long. At last, with nothing before her eyes but her lover, defeated, swept along, not knowing where she was being led, she let herself be taken to the fatal supper. Nothing had persuaded her to adorn herself with the earrings; her confidante brought them along and fastened them on her against her will before they sat down to table. Saint-Yves was so mortified, so distraught, that she let herself be tormented; and her patron took this as a very favorable omen. Toward the end of the meal, the confidante discreetly withdrew. The patron then showed her the revocation of the lettre de cachet, a warrant for a substantial gratuity, and a commission to command a company, and was lavish with his promises. "Ah!" Saint-Yves told him. "How I would love you if you did not want to be loved so much!"

At last, after long resistance, after sobs, cries, and tears, weakened by the struggle, bewildered, her strength ebbing, she had to surrender. Her only recourse was to promise herself that she would think of no one but the Ingénu while the cruel man mercilessly enjoyed the desperate straits to which she had been reduced.

### Chapter XVIII

She frees her lover and a Jansenist.

At daybreak she flew to Paris, armed with the minister's order. It is difficult to portray what passed in her heart during that journey. Imagine a virtuous and noble soul, humbled by her disgrace, intoxicated with tenderness, torn by remorse for having betrayed her lover, filled with the joy of freeing the man she adored! Her bitterness, her struggles, her success divided all her thoughts among them. She was no longer the simple girl whose provincial upbringing had narrowed her ideas. Love and misfortune had formed her. Feeling had advanced as far in her as reason had in the mind of her unfortunate lover. Girls learn to feel more readily than men learn to think. Her ordeal had taught her more than four years in a convent.

Her dress was of the utmost simplicity. She looked with horror on the finery in which she had appeared before her fatal benefactor; she had left her diamond earrings with her companion without even looking at them. Mortified and delighted, idolizing the Ingénu and hating herself, she arrived at last at the gates of

… that dreadful castle, palace of revenge,
Which often holds both crime and innocence.

When the time came to step down from the carriage, her strength failed her; she was helped out. She entered with a pounding heart, wet eyes, and a stricken face. She was shown to the governor; she tried to speak to him, but her voice died away. She showed him her order, scarcely able to articulate a few words. The governor liked his prisoner and was very glad of his release. His heart was not hardened like those of certain honorable jailers, his colleagues, who thought only of the fees attached to the custody of their captives, founded their income on their victims, lived on the misfortunes of others, and secretly took a dreadful joy in the tears of the unhappy.

He had the prisoner brought to his apartment. The two lovers saw each other, and both fainted. The beautiful Saint-Yves lay motionless and lifeless for a long time; the other soon recovered his courage. "This is evidently your wife," the governor told him. "You had not told me you were married. I am informed that you owe your release to her generous efforts." "Ah! I am not worthy to be his wife," said the beautiful Saint-Yves in a trembling voice; and she fainted once again.

When she came to her senses, still trembling, she presented the warrant for the gratuity and the written promise of a company to command. The Ingénu, as astonished as he was moved, woke from one dream only to fall into another. "Why was I locked up here? How have you managed to get me out? Where are the monsters who cast me into this place? You are a divinity come down from heaven to my rescue."

The beautiful Saint-Yves lowered her gaze, looked at her lover, blushed, and a moment later turned away her tear-filled eyes. At last she told him everything she knew and everything she had endured, except what she would have wished to hide forever even from herself, and what anyone other than the Ingénu, more accustomed to the world and better acquainted with the ways of the court, would easily have guessed.

"Is it possible that a wretch like that bailiff had the power to rob me of my freedom? Ah! I see that men are like the vilest animals: all can do harm. But is it possible that a monk, a Jesuit who hears the king's confession, contributed as much to my misfortune as that bailiff, when I cannot even imagine on what pretext the loathsome scoundrel persecuted me? Did he pass me off as a Jansenist? And how did you remember me? I did not deserve it; I was only a savage then. What! Without advice, without help, you were able to undertake the journey to Versailles! You appeared there, and my chains were broken! Beauty and virtue must possess an invincible charm that brings down iron gates and softens hearts of bronze!"

At the word *virtue*, the beautiful Saint-Yves broke into sobs. She did not know how virtuous she was in the crime for which she reproached herself.

Her lover continued: "Angel who broke my chains, if you had enough influence—which I still do not understand—to have justice done me, then have it done as well to an old man who first taught me to think, as you have taught me to love. Calamity united us. I love him as a father; I cannot live without either you or him."

"I! Ask a favor of the same man who…" "Yes, I want to owe you everything, and never to owe anything to anyone but you. Write to that powerful man, shower me with your kindness, finish what you have begun, complete your miracles." She felt that she must do everything her lover asked. She tried to write; her hand would not obey. Three times she began her letter again; three times she tore it up. At last she wrote, and the two lovers left after embracing the old martyr to efficacious grace.

The happy, desolate Saint-Yves knew the house where her brother was staying; she went there, and her lover took an apartment in the same house.

They had scarcely arrived when her protector sent her the order for good old Gordon's release and asked her to meet him the next day. Thus her dishonor was the price of every honest and generous action she performed. She looked with loathing on this practice of selling human happiness and misery. She gave the release order to her lover and refused to meet a benefactor whom she could no longer see without dying of grief and shame. The Ingénu could tear himself away from her only to go and free a friend: he flew there. He fulfilled this duty while reflecting on the strange events of this world and admiring the courageous virtue of a young girl to whom two unhappy men owed more than life.

### Chapter XIX

The Ingénu, the beautiful Saint-Yves, and their relatives are reunited.

The generous and worthy unfaithful woman was with her brother, the abbé de Saint-Yves, the good prior of Our Lady of the Mountain, and Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. All were equally astonished, but their situations and feelings were very different. The abbé de Saint-Yves wept over his wrongs at the feet of his sister, who forgave him. The prior and his tenderhearted sister wept as well, but for joy. The odious bailiff and his insufferable son did not disturb this touching scene. They had left at the first report of their enemy's release, hurrying to bury their stupidity and their fear in their province.

Stirred by a hundred different emotions, the four awaited the young man's return with the friend he was to free. The abbé de Saint-Yves did not dare raise his eyes before his sister. Good Mademoiselle de Kerkabon said, "So I shall see my dear nephew again!" "You will see him again," said the charming Saint-Yves, "but he is no longer the same man. His bearing, his tone, his ideas, his mind—everything has changed. He has become as worthy of respect as he once was naïve and a stranger to everything. He will be the honor and consolation of your family. If only I could bring happiness to mine as well!" "You are not the same either," said the prior. "What has happened to you to bring about so great a change?"

In the midst of this conversation the Ingénu arrived, holding his Jansenist by the hand. The scene now grew still more novel and moving. It began with the tender embraces of the uncle and aunt. The abbé de Saint-Yves all but knelt before the Ingénu, who was no longer naïve. The two lovers spoke to each other through glances that expressed all the feelings filling their hearts. Satisfaction and gratitude shone on his face; distress was painted in her tender, slightly bewildered eyes. Everyone was surprised that she mingled sorrow with so much joy.

Within a few moments old Gordon had become dear to the whole family. He had suffered with the young prisoner, and that was a great claim on their affection. He owed his release to the two lovers, and that alone reconciled him to love. The harshness of his former opinions was leaving his heart; he had been transformed into a man, just as the Huron had. Before supper, everyone told their adventures. The two abbés and the aunt listened like children hearing ghost stories, and like people who all felt concern at so many disasters. "Alas!" said Gordon. "There may be more than five hundred virtuous people now in the same chains that Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves has broken. Their misfortunes are unknown. There are hands enough to strike the multitude of the unhappy, and rarely one to help." This reflection, so true, increased his tenderness and gratitude. Everything redoubled the beautiful Saint-Yves's triumph; they admired the greatness and firmness of her soul. Their admiration was mingled with the respect one feels, despite oneself, for someone believed to have influence at court. But the abbé de Saint-Yves sometimes said, "How can my sister have managed to obtain this influence so quickly?"

They were about to sit down to a very early supper when the good friend from Versailles arrived, knowing nothing of what had happened. She came in a carriage drawn by six horses, and it is easy to see whose equipage it was. She entered with the imposing air of a person from court who has important business, barely greeted the company, and drew the beautiful Saint-Yves aside. "Why keep us waiting so long? Come with me. Here are the diamonds you forgot." She could not say these words so softly that the Ingénu did not hear them. He saw the diamonds; the brother was dumbfounded; the uncle and aunt felt only the amazement of simple souls who had never seen such magnificence. The young man, who had formed himself through a year of reflection, now reflected despite himself, and looked troubled for a moment. His beloved noticed it. A deathly pallor spread over her beautiful face, a shudder seized her, and she could scarcely stand. "Ah, madame," she said to her fatal friend, "you have ruined me! You are killing me!" These words pierced the Ingénu's heart, but he had already learned self-control. He did not take them up, for fear of distressing his beloved in front of her brother, but he turned as pale as she.

Distraught at the change she saw in her lover's face, Saint-Yves drew the woman out of the room into a little passage and threw the diamonds on the floor before her. "Ah! These were not what led me astray, as you know. But the man who gave them will never see me again." Her friend was picking them up as Saint-Yves added, "Let him take them back or give them to you. Go, do not make me still more ashamed of myself." At last the ambassadress went away, unable to understand the remorse she had witnessed.

The beautiful Saint-Yves, oppressed by a turmoil in her body that was stifling her, was obliged to go to bed. But to alarm no one, she said nothing of her suffering. Pleading only fatigue, she asked leave to rest, but not before reassuring the company with comforting, flattering words and casting glances at her lover that set his soul on fire.

The supper, which she was not there to enliven, was sad at first, but with that engaging sadness which gives rise to absorbing and useful conversations, so far superior to the frivolous gaiety people seek, which is usually no more than tiresome noise.

In a few words Gordon related the history of both Jansenism and Molinism, the persecutions with which one party overwhelmed the other, and the obstinacy of both. The Ingénu criticized it all and pitied men who, not content with the many quarrels kindled by their interests, create new miseries for themselves over imaginary interests and unintelligible absurdities. Gordon recounted; the other judged. Their fellow diners listened with feeling and were enlightened by a new light. They spoke of the length of our misfortunes and the brevity of life. They observed that every occupation has a vice and a danger attached to it, and that from the prince to the lowest beggar, everything seems to accuse nature. How is it that so many men, for so little money, make themselves the persecutors, henchmen, and executioners of other men? With what inhuman indifference a man in office signs away a family's existence, and with what still more barbarous joy hirelings carry out its destruction!

"In my youth," said good old Gordon, "I knew a relative of Marshal de Marillac who, being pursued in his province for supporting that illustrious, unfortunate man, was hiding in Paris under an assumed name. He was an old man of seventy-two. His wife, who accompanied him, was about the same age. They had had a dissolute son who, at fourteen, had run away from his father's house. He became a soldier, then a deserter, and passed through every degree of debauchery and misery. At last, having assumed the name of an estate, he joined Cardinal de Richelieu's guards—for that priest, like Mazarin, had guards—and had won an exempt's baton in that company of henchmen. This adventurer was charged with arresting the old man and his wife, and carried out his task with all the harshness of a man eager to please his master. As he was leading them away, he heard these two victims lamenting the long succession of misfortunes they had endured since the cradle. Among their greatest sorrows, the father and mother counted their son's waywardness and loss. He recognized them, but took them to prison all the same, assuring them that serving His Eminence must come before everything. His Eminence rewarded his zeal.

"I have seen a spy of Father de La Chaise betray his own brother in the hope of a little benefice he never received; and I have seen him die, not of remorse, but of grief at having been deceived by the Jesuit.

"My office as confessor, which I exercised for a long time, gave me a knowledge of families' inner lives. I have scarcely seen one that was not steeped in bitterness while outwardly, covered by the mask of happiness, it seemed to swim in joy; and I have always observed that great sorrows were the fruit of our unbridled greed."

"For my part," said the Ingénu, "I think a noble, grateful, and sensitive soul can live happily; and I fully intend to enjoy unalloyed happiness with the beautiful and generous Saint-Yves. For I flatter myself," he added, turning to her brother with a friendly smile, "that you will not refuse me as you did last year, and that I shall go about it more decently." The abbé overwhelmed him with apologies for the past and protestations of eternal devotion.

Uncle Kerkabon said it would be the finest day of his life. The good aunt, in raptures and weeping for joy, cried, "I told you that you would never be a subdeacon! This sacrament is worth more than the other. If only God had granted me that honor! But I will be a mother to you." Then they vied with one another in praising the tender Saint-Yves.

Her lover's heart was too full of what she had done for him, and he loved her too much, for the episode of the diamonds to have made a prevailing impression on his heart. But those words he had heard only too well, *you are killing me*, still secretly frightened him and spoiled all his joy, while the praises of his beautiful beloved increased his love still more. At last they thought of nothing but her; they spoke only of the happiness these two lovers deserved. They made arrangements for everyone to live together in Paris, planned their fortunes and advancement, and surrendered to all those hopes that the faintest gleam of happiness so easily calls to life. But deep in his heart the Ingénu felt a secret misgiving that resisted this illusion. He reread those promises signed Saint-Pouange and those warrants signed Louvois. The two men were described to him as they were, or were believed to be. Everyone spoke of the ministers and the ministry with that freedom of the dinner table regarded in France as the most precious liberty one can enjoy on earth.

"If I were king of France," said the Ingénu, "here is the minister of war I would choose. I would want a man of the highest birth, because he gives orders to the nobility. I would require that he had been an officer himself, that he had risen through every rank, that he was at least a lieutenant general in the army and worthy to be a marshal of France. For must he not have served himself to know the details of the service better? And will officers not obey a military man who has distinguished himself by his courage, as they have, a hundred times more gladly than a man of the study who can at best only guess at the operations of a campaign, however clever he may be? I would not mind my minister's being generous, even if this sometimes embarrassed the keeper of my royal treasury a little. I would like him to work with ease, and even to be distinguished by that gaiety of spirit belonging to a man who is master of his business, which pleases the nation so much and makes every duty less burdensome." He wanted the minister to have this character because he had always observed that such good humor is incompatible with cruelty.

That Louvois might not have been pleased with the Ingénu's wishes; his merits were of a different kind.

But while they sat at table, the unhappy girl's illness was taking a fatal turn. Her blood was inflamed, a consuming fever had declared itself; she suffered and did not complain, careful not to disturb the diners' joy.

Her brother, knowing she was not asleep, went to her bedside and was startled at her condition. Everyone hurried in; her lover came behind her brother. He was undoubtedly the most alarmed and most deeply moved of all; but he had learned to add discretion to all the happy gifts nature had lavished on him, and a quick sense of propriety was beginning to govern him.

A doctor from the neighborhood was summoned at once. He was one of those who visit their patients at a run, confuse the illness they have just seen with the one before them, and bring blind routine to a science from which all the maturity of sound and thoughtful judgment cannot remove uncertainty and danger. He redoubled the harm by hastily prescribing a remedy then in fashion. Fashion even in medicine! This mania was all too common in Paris.

The sorrowful Saint-Yves did still more than her doctor to make her illness dangerous. Her soul was killing her body. The multitude of thoughts tormenting her carried into her veins a poison more dangerous than that of the fiercest fever.

### Chapter XX

The beautiful Saint-Yves dies, and what comes of it.

Another doctor was called. Instead of assisting nature and letting her act in a young person whose every organ was calling life back, this one concerned himself only with contradicting his colleague. In two days the illness became mortal. The brain, believed to be the seat of understanding, was attacked as violently as the heart, said to be the seat of the passions.

What incomprehensible mechanism has subjected the organs to feeling and thought? How does a single painful idea disturb the course of the blood? And how does the blood in its turn carry its disorders into human understanding? What is this unknown fluid, whose existence is certain, which, swifter and more active than light, flies in less than the blink of an eye through all the channels of life, produces sensations, memory, sadness or joy, reason or delirium, recalls with horror what we would like to forget, and makes a thinking animal either an object of admiration or a subject of pity and tears?

Such were good Gordon's words; and this very natural reflection, which men rarely make, took nothing from his tenderness, for he was not one of those unhappy philosophers who strive to feel nothing. He was moved by the young girl's fate like a father watching his beloved child slowly die. The abbé de Saint-Yves was in despair; the prior and his sister shed streams of tears. But who could portray her lover's state? No language has expressions equal to this extremity of grief; languages are too imperfect.

The aunt, scarcely alive herself, held the dying girl's head in her feeble arms; her brother knelt at the foot of the bed; her lover clasped her hand, bathed it in tears, and broke into sobs. He called her his benefactress, his hope, his life, half of himself, his beloved, his wife. At the word wife she sighed, looked at him with inexpressible tenderness, and suddenly gave a cry of horror. Then, in one of those intervals when exhaustion, the oppression of the senses, and suffering are suspended and leave the soul its freedom and strength, she cried, "I, your wife! Ah, dear lover, that name, that happiness, that prize were no longer meant for me. I am dying, and I deserve it. Oh, god of my heart! You whom I sacrificed to infernal demons, it is over, I am punished. Live happily." These tender, terrible words could not be understood, but they carried terror and compassion into every heart. She found the courage to explain herself. Every word made all those present shudder with astonishment, grief, and pity. All joined in detesting the powerful man who had repaired a horrible injustice only through a crime, and had forced the most honorable innocence to become his accomplice.

"What? You, guilty!" her lover told her. "No, you are not. Crime can exist only in the heart, and yours belongs to virtue and to me."

He affirmed this feeling in words that seemed to bring the beautiful Saint-Yves back to life. She felt consoled and was astonished to be loved still. Old Gordon would have condemned her in the days when he was only a Jansenist; but having become wise, he esteemed her and wept.

Amid so many tears and fears, while the danger threatening this dear girl filled every heart and all were stricken, a courier from court was announced. A courier! From whom? And why? He came on behalf of the king's confessor, for the prior of Kerkabon. It was not Father de La Chaise who was writing, but Brother Vadbled, his valet, a very important man in those days: he conveyed the reverend father's wishes to archbishops, he granted audiences, he promised benefices, he sometimes had lettres de cachet issued. He wrote to the abbé de Kerkabon "that His Reverence had been informed of his nephew's adventures, that his imprisonment had been merely a mistake, that these little misfortunes occurred frequently, that no attention should be paid to them, that in short it was proper that he, the prior, should come and present his nephew the next day, that he should bring good old Gordon with him, that he, Brother Vadbled, would introduce them to His Reverence and to that Louvois, who would say a word to them in his antechamber."

He added that the story of the Ingénu and his battle against the English had been told to the king, that the king would surely deign to notice him as he passed through the gallery, and might even nod to him. The letter ended by holding out the flattering hope that all the ladies at court would be eager to summon his nephew to their dressing tables, that several would say to him, "Good morning, Monsieur Ingénu," and that he would certainly be mentioned at the king's supper. The letter was signed, "Your affectionate Vadbled, Jesuit brother."

The prior read the letter aloud. His furious nephew, mastering his anger for a moment, said nothing to the bearer, but turned to the companion of his misfortunes and asked what he thought of this style. Gordon answered, "So this is how men are treated like monkeys! They are beaten and made to dance." The Ingénu, reverting to his own character, which always returns in the soul's great upheavals, tore the letter to pieces and flung them in the courier's face. "There is my answer." His terrified uncle thought he saw a thunderbolt and twenty lettres de cachet falling upon him. He hurried to write and excuse as best he could what he took for a young man's fit of temper, and what was the outburst of a great soul.

But more painful cares were taking hold of every heart. The beautiful, unfortunate Saint-Yves already felt her end approaching. She was calm, but with that dreadful calm of a nature so crushed it no longer has the strength to struggle. "Oh, my dear lover!" she said in a failing voice. "Death is punishing me for my weakness, but I die with the consolation of knowing you are free.

"I adored you as I betrayed you, and I adore you as I bid you an eternal farewell."

She did not adorn herself with a show of firmness. She could not conceive of that wretched glory of making a few neighbors say, "She died bravely." Who at twenty can lose her lover, her life, and what is called *honor* without regret and anguish? She felt the full horror of her condition and made it felt through those words and those dying looks that speak with such command. In short, she wept like the others whenever she had the strength to weep.

Let others seek to praise the ostentatious deaths of those who go insensibly into destruction: that is the lot of every animal. We die as indifferently as they do only when age or illness makes us resemble them through the dullness of our organs. Whoever suffers a great loss feels great regret; if he stifles it, he carries vanity even into the arms of death.

When the fatal moment came, all those present broke into tears and cries. The Ingénu lost consciousness. Strong souls, when they are tender, feel far more violently than others. Good Gordon knew him well enough to fear that when he came to himself, he would take his own life. All weapons were removed. The unhappy young man noticed it and said to his relatives and Gordon, without weeping, without groaning, without agitation, "Do you really think there is anyone on earth with the right and the power to keep me from ending my life?" Gordon took care not to parade before him those tedious commonplaces by which people try to prove that we may not use our freedom to cease to exist when we are horribly unhappy; that we must not leave our house when we can no longer live in it; that man is on earth like a soldier at his post—as though it mattered to the Being of beings whether an assemblage of a few particles of matter was in one place or another. Powerless arguments, which firm and thoughtful despair disdains to hear, and which Cato answered only with a dagger stroke.

The Ingénu's bleak and terrible silence, his dark eyes, his trembling lips, the shudders of his body carried into the soul of everyone watching him that mixture of compassion and terror which binds all the soul's powers, excludes all speech, and reveals itself only in broken words. The landlady and her family had hurried in. They trembled at his despair, kept him in sight, and watched his every movement. The cold body of the beautiful Saint-Yves had already been carried to a downstairs room, far from the eyes of her lover, who seemed to be looking for her still, though he was no longer capable of seeing anything.

Amid this spectacle of death, while the body was displayed at the door of the house, while two priests beside a holy-water basin distractedly recited prayers, while passersby idly sprinkled a few drops of holy water on the coffin and others went indifferently on their way, while the relatives wept and a lover was ready to tear life from himself, Saint-Pouange arrived with the friend from Versailles.

His passing fancy, satisfied only once, had become love. The refusal of his favors had piqued him. Father de La Chaise would never have thought of coming to this house; but Saint-Pouange, with the image of the beautiful Saint-Yves before his eyes every day, burning to sate a passion that, through a single enjoyment, had driven the spur of desire deep into his heart, did not hesitate to come himself in search of a woman he might not have wanted to see three times had she come of her own accord.

He stepped down from his carriage; the first thing he saw was a coffin. He turned his eyes away with the simple disgust of a man brought up among pleasures, who thinks he should be spared any spectacle that might bring him back to contemplating human misery. He wanted to go upstairs. The woman from Versailles asked out of curiosity who was to be buried; Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves's name was spoken. At that name she turned pale and gave a dreadful cry. Saint-Pouange turned around; astonishment and grief filled his soul. Good Gordon was there, his eyes full of tears. He interrupted his sorrowful prayers to tell the courtier of the whole horrible catastrophe. He spoke with the authority that grief and virtue confer. Saint-Pouange had not been born wicked; the torrent of business and amusements had carried away his soul, which did not yet know itself. He was not approaching the old age that usually hardens ministers' hearts. He listened to Gordon with lowered eyes and wiped from them a few tears he was astonished to shed. He came to know repentance.

"I absolutely must see this extraordinary man you have told me about," he said. "He moves me almost as much as the innocent victim whose death I caused." Gordon followed him to the room where the prior, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, the abbé de Saint-Yves, and a few neighbors were bringing the young man back to life after he had fainted again.

"I have brought you misery," the deputy minister told him. "I will spend my life making amends." The Ingénu's first thought was to kill him and then kill himself. Nothing could have been more fitting; but he had no weapons and was closely watched. Saint-Pouange was not discouraged by refusals accompanied by the reproach, contempt, and horror he had deserved and that were heaped upon him. Time softens everything. Louvois at last succeeded in making an excellent officer of the Ingénu, who appeared under another name in Paris and in the armies, with the approval of all honorable people, and who was at once an intrepid warrior and philosopher.

He never spoke of this adventure without a groan, and yet his consolation lay in speaking of it. He cherished the memory of the tender Saint-Yves to the last moment of his life. The abbé de Saint-Yves and the prior each received a good benefice; good Mademoiselle de Kerkabon preferred to see her nephew with military honors rather than in the subdiaconate. The devout woman from Versailles kept the diamond earrings and received another handsome present. Father Tout-à-tous received boxes of chocolate, coffee, rock candy, and candied lemons, with the *Meditations of the Reverend Father Croiset* and *The Flower of the Saints* bound in morocco leather. Good Gordon lived with the Ingénu in the closest friendship until his death; he too received a benefice and forgot efficacious grace and concomitant concurrence forever. He adopted as his motto: *Misfortune is good for something*. How many honorable people in this world have been able to say, *Misfortune is good for nothing!*

## Translation — Mouseia

> Complete machine-assisted Plain English translation made independently and directly from the French, not from the Musean edition. All twenty chapters and Voltaire’s three author notes are retained; Beuchot’s editorial apparatus is omitted.

### Chapter I

How the prior of Notre-Dame de la Montagne and his sister met a Huron.

One day Saint Dunstan, Irish by nationality and a saint by profession, left Ireland on a little mountain. It floated toward the coast of France and carried him to the bay of Saint-Malo. When he reached shore, he blessed his mountain. It bowed low to him and went back to Ireland by the same route it had come.

Dunstan founded a little priory in that area and named it the Priory of the Mountain. As everyone knows, it still has that name.

On the evening of July 15, 1689, the abbé de Kerkabon, prior of Notre-Dame de la Montagne, was walking along the seashore with his sister, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, to enjoy the cool air. The prior was getting on in years. He was a very good churchman, loved by his male neighbors, as he had once been loved by his female neighbors. Above all, he owed his great reputation to being the only holder of a church benefice in the district who did not have to be carried to bed after dining with his fellow clergy. He knew a fair amount of theology. When he got tired of reading Saint Augustine, he amused himself with Rabelais. So everyone spoke well of him.

Mademoiselle de Kerkabon had never married, although she had badly wanted to. At forty-five she still looked fresh. She was kind and sensitive, fond of pleasure, and devout.

Looking out to sea, the prior said to his sister, "Sadly, this is where our poor brother sailed on the frigate *l’Hirondelle* in 1669 to serve in Canada, with our dear sister-in-law, Madame de Kerkabon, his wife. If he hadn't been killed, we could still hope to see him again."

"Do you think," said Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, "that our sister-in-law was eaten by the Iroquois, as we were told? She certainly would have come home if she hadn't been eaten. I'll mourn her all my life. She was a lovely woman. And our brother was so clever, he would surely have made a great fortune."

As these memories moved them both, they saw a little ship coming into the bay of Rance on the tide. It carried Englishmen who had come to sell some goods from their country. They jumped ashore without looking at the prior or his sister. She was very offended at being given so little attention.

But one very handsome young man behaved differently. He leaped over his companions' heads and landed in front of her. He nodded to her, since he was not used to bowing. His appearance and clothes caught the attention of both brother and sister. His head and legs were bare, and he wore little sandals. His long hair was braided, and a short jacket fitted closely around his slim, graceful waist. He looked both warlike and gentle. In one hand he held a small bottle of Barbados liquor, and in the other a kind of pouch containing a cup and some very good ship's biscuits. His French was easy to understand. He offered some of his Barbados liquor to Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and her brother and drank with them. He gave them another drink, all with such simple, natural manners that they were delighted. They offered to help him and asked who he was and where he was going. The young man answered that he didn't know. He was curious, had wanted to see what the French coast looked like, had come, and was going back again.

The prior could tell from his accent that he was not English, so he took the liberty of asking what country he came from. "I'm a Huron," the young man answered.

Amazed and delighted to see a Huron who had been polite to her, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon invited the young man to supper. He didn't need to be asked twice, and all three went together to the priory of Notre-Dame de la Montagne.

The short, round lady stared at him with all the strength of her little eyes. Every so often she said to the prior, "That tall boy has a complexion of lilies and roses! What beautiful skin for a Huron!" "You're right, sister," said the prior. She asked a hundred questions, one after another, and the traveler always gave sensible answers.

Word soon spread that there was a Huron at the priory. The local people of standing hurried over for supper. The abbé de Saint-Yves came with his sister, a very pretty, well-brought-up young woman from Lower Brittany. The bailiff, the collector of the land tax, and their wives joined them. They seated the stranger between Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. Everyone looked at him in admiration. Everyone talked to him and questioned him at once. The Huron stayed calm. He seemed to have adopted Lord Bolingbroke's motto, *Be surprised at nothing*. At last, worn out by all the noise, he said gently but firmly, "Gentlemen, in my country we speak one at a time. How do you expect me to answer when you won't let me hear you?" Reason always makes people stop and think for a few moments. A deep silence fell. The bailiff always took possession of strangers in any house he visited and was the greatest questioner in the province. Opening his mouth half a foot wide, he said, "Sir, what is your name?" "People have always called me the Ingénu," the Huron replied. "They confirmed that name in England, because I always say candidly what I think, just as I always do what I want."

"Since you were born a Huron, sir, how did you get to England?" "They took me there. The English captured me in a battle, after I'd put up a pretty good fight. The English value courage because they're brave themselves, and they're as decent as we are. They offered either to send me back to my relatives or to take me to England. I chose England because I've always had a passion for seeing other countries."

"But, sir," the bailiff said in his commanding voice, "how could you abandon your father and mother like that?" "Because I've never known either my father or my mother," said the stranger. Everyone was moved and kept repeating, "*Neither father nor mother!*" "We'll take their place," the lady of the house told her brother the prior. "What an appealing man this Huron is!" The Ingénu thanked her with warm, proud dignity and made her understand that he needed nothing.

"I notice, Monsieur Ingénu," said the solemn bailiff, "that you speak better French than a Huron ought to." "A Frenchman we captured when I was very young in Huron country taught me his language," he said. "I became very fond of him. I learn very quickly when I want to learn something. When I arrived in Plymouth, I met one of your French refugees whom you call *Huguenots*, I don't know why. He helped me improve my knowledge of your language. As soon as I could make myself understood, I came to see your country, because I rather like French people when they don't ask too many questions."

Despite this little warning, the abbé de Saint-Yves asked which of the three languages he liked best: Huron, English, or French. "Huron, without question," the Ingénu answered. "Can that be possible?" cried Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "I always thought French was the finest of all languages, after the language of Lower Brittany."

Then everyone competed to ask the Ingénu the Huron word for tobacco. He answered, "*taya*." They asked the word for eating, and he answered, "*essenten*." Mademoiselle de Kerkabon insisted on knowing the word for making love. He answered, "*trovander*"[a]. He maintained, with some reason, that these words were every bit as good as their French and English equivalents. All the guests thought *trovander* was very pretty.

[a] All these words are in fact Huron.

The prior had a Huron grammar in his library, a gift from the Reverend Father Sagar Théodat, a Recollect friar and famous missionary. He left the table for a moment to consult it. He came back breathless with affection and joy: he recognized the Ingénu as a genuine Huron. They debated the great number of languages for a while and agreed that, without the incident at the Tower of Babel, the whole world would have spoken French.

The questioning bailiff had been a little suspicious of the stranger until then. Now he felt deep respect for him and spoke more politely than before. The Ingénu did not notice.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves was very curious to know how people made love in Huron country. "By doing fine deeds," he answered, "to please people like you." All the guests applauded in surprise. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves blushed and felt very pleased. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon also blushed, but she was not so pleased. She was a little hurt that the compliment was not meant for her. Still, she was such a good person that her affection for the Huron did not change at all. Very kindly, she asked how many sweethearts he'd had in Huron country. "I've only ever had one," said the Ingénu. "She was Mademoiselle Abacaba, my dear nurse's good friend. Reeds aren't straighter, ermine isn't whiter, sheep are less gentle, eagles less proud, and deer aren't as swift as Abacaba was. One day she was chasing a hare in our neighborhood, about fifty leagues from our home. A rude Algonquin who lived a hundred leagues farther away came and took her hare. I heard about it and ran there. I knocked the Algonquin down with one blow of my club, tied his hands and feet, and brought him to my sweetheart's feet. Abacaba's relatives wanted to eat him, but I've never liked that kind of feast. I set him free and made him my friend. Abacaba was so touched by what I'd done that she chose me over all her other admirers. She would still love me if a bear hadn't eaten her. I punished the bear and wore its skin for a long time, but that didn't comfort me."

Hearing this story, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves felt secretly pleased to learn that the Ingénu had had only one sweetheart and that Abacaba was dead. But she could not work out why it pleased her. Everyone stared at the Ingénu and praised him warmly for stopping his companions from eating an Algonquin.

The relentless bailiff could not hold back his mania for questions. At last he went so far as to ask what religion the Huron followed. Had he chosen the Anglican religion, the Gallican, or the Huguenot? "I follow my own religion," he said, "just as you follow yours." "Oh dear!" cried Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "I can see those wretched Englishmen never even thought of baptizing him." "Oh, my God," said Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, "how can the Hurons not be Catholics? Haven't the reverend Jesuit fathers converted them all?" The Ingénu assured her that no one was converted in his country. No true Huron had ever changed his opinion, and their language did not even have a word meaning *inconstancy*. These last words pleased Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves very much.

"We'll baptize him, we'll baptize him," Mademoiselle de Kerkabon told the prior. "You'll have the honor, my dear brother. I absolutely insist on being his godmother. The abbé de Saint-Yves will present him at the font. It will be a splendid ceremony. People will talk about it all over Lower Brittany, and it will bring us endless honor." Everyone supported the lady of the house. All the guests shouted, "We'll baptize him!" The Ingénu answered that in England people were allowed to live as they pleased. He made it clear that he did not like the suggestion at all and that the Hurons' law was at least as good as the law of Lower Brittany. Finally he said he was leaving the next day. They finished his bottle of Barbados liquor, and everyone went to bed.

After the Ingénu had been shown to his room, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and her friend Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves could not resist looking through a large keyhole to see how a Huron slept. They saw that he had spread the bedcover on the floor and was resting in the most beautiful pose in the world.

### Chapter II

The Huron called the Ingénu is recognized by his relatives.

As usual, the Ingénu woke at sunrise to the sound of the rooster, called *the trumpet of the day* in England and Huron country. He was not like fashionable people, who lie idle in bed until the sun has finished half its journey. They can neither sleep nor get up. They waste precious hours in this state halfway between life and death, and still complain that life is too short.

He had already walked two or three leagues and killed thirty pieces of game, using single bullets, when he came back. He found the prior of Notre-Dame de la Montagne and his discreet sister walking in their little garden in nightcaps. He gave them everything he had shot. Then he pulled from his shirt a kind of small charm that he always wore around his neck and asked them to accept it in thanks for their welcome. "It's the most precious thing I own," he told them. "I've been assured that I'll always be happy as long as I carry this little trinket. I'm giving it to you so that you'll always be happy."

The prior and his sister smiled, touched by the Ingénu's simple trust. The gift was two small, poorly painted portraits tied together with a very greasy strap.

Mademoiselle de Kerkabon asked him whether there were painters in Huron country. "No," said the Ingénu. "This rare object came from my nurse. Her husband got it as war loot when he stripped some Frenchmen in Canada who had fought against us. That's all I've ever known about it."

The prior looked closely at the portraits. His color changed, he grew agitated, and his hands shook. "By Our Lady of the Mountain!" he cried. "I think these are the faces of my brother the captain and his wife!" His sister examined them with the same emotion and came to the same conclusion. Both were overwhelmed with surprise and joy mixed with sorrow. Both were deeply moved; both cried. Their hearts pounded, and they shouted. They snatched the portraits from each other, each taking them and giving them back twenty times in a second. Their eyes devoured the portraits and the Huron. One after the other, and both at once, they asked him where, when, and how these miniatures had come into his nurse's hands. They compared dates and counted the years since the captain had left. They remembered hearing that he had traveled as far as Huron country, and they had heard nothing of him since.

The Ingénu had told them he had never known either his father or his mother. The prior, a sensible man, noticed that the Ingénu had a little beard. He knew very well that Hurons had none. "He has down on his chin, so his father must have been European. My brother and sister-in-law disappeared after the expedition against the Hurons in 1669. My nephew must have been a nursing baby then. His Huron nurse saved his life and acted as his mother." At last, after a hundred questions and a hundred answers, the prior and his sister concluded that the Huron was their own nephew. They hugged him, crying, while the Ingénu laughed. He could not imagine a Huron being the nephew of a prior from Lower Brittany.

All the guests came downstairs. Monsieur de Saint-Yves, a great judge of faces, compared the two portraits with the Ingénu's face. He very skillfully pointed out that he had his mother's eyes, the forehead and nose of the late Captain de Kerkabon, and cheeks that resembled both parents.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, who had never seen either parent, declared that the Ingénu looked exactly like them. Everyone admired Providence and the chain of events in this world. In the end, they were so sure, so convinced about the Ingénu's birth, that he himself agreed to be the prior's nephew. He said he would as soon have him for an uncle as anyone else.

They went to thank God in the church of Notre-Dame de la Montagne. Meanwhile the Huron stayed in the house, unconcerned, and amused himself by drinking.

The Englishmen who had brought him were ready to sail and came to tell him it was time to leave. "Apparently you haven't found your uncles and aunts," he told them. "I'm staying here. Go back to Plymouth. I'll give you all my clothes. I don't need anything else in the world now that I'm a prior's nephew." The Englishmen sailed away, caring very little whether the Ingénu had relatives in Lower Brittany or not.

The uncle, the aunt, and their guests sang the *Te Deum*. The bailiff overwhelmed the Ingénu with more questions. They exhausted everything that surprise, joy, and affection could make them say. Then the prior of the Mountain and the abbé de Saint-Yves decided to have the Ingénu baptized as soon as possible. But a full-grown Huron of twenty-two was not like a baby who is born again without knowing anything about it. He had to be taught, and that seemed difficult. The abbé de Saint-Yves assumed that anyone not born in France had no common sense.

The prior pointed out to the guests that, although his nephew Monsieur Ingénu had not had the good fortune to be born in Lower Brittany, he was no less intelligent for that. They could judge this from all his answers. Nature had certainly been very generous to him, on both his father's and his mother's side.

First they asked him if he had ever read a book. He said he had read Rabelais in English translation and some passages of Shakespeare that he knew by heart. He had found these books among the belongings of the captain who brought him from America to Plymouth, and he had liked them very much. Of course the bailiff questioned him about these books. "I admit," said the Ingénu, "that I thought I could guess at some of it, and I didn't understand the rest."

Hearing this, the abbé de Saint-Yves reflected that this was how he himself had always read, and that most people hardly read any other way. "You've read the *Bible*, of course?" he asked the Huron. "Not at all, Father. It wasn't among my captain's books. I've never heard of it." "That's what those damned Englishmen are like!" cried Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "They'll think more of a play by Shakespeare, a plum pudding, and a bottle of rum than of the Pentateuch. That's why they've never converted anyone in America. God has certainly cursed them, and before long we'll take Jamaica and Virginia from them."

Anyway, they sent for the best tailor in Saint-Malo to dress the Ingénu from head to foot. The guests went their separate ways. The bailiff went to ask his questions somewhere else. As Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves left, she turned around several times to look at the Ingénu. He bowed to her more deeply than he had ever bowed to anyone in his life.

Before saying goodbye, the bailiff introduced his son to Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves: a big oaf just out of school. But she barely looked at him, she was so taken up with the Huron's polite attentions.

### Chapter III

The Huron called the Ingénu is converted.

The prior saw that he was getting on in years and that God had sent him a nephew to comfort him. He began to think he could hand over his church benefice to the young man if he managed to have him baptized and ordained.

The Ingénu had an excellent memory. The sturdy constitution he had inherited from Lower Brittany, strengthened by Canada's climate, had given him such a tough head that he barely felt a blow to it. And once something was engraved inside it, nothing rubbed it out. He had never forgotten anything. His understanding was all the quicker and clearer because his childhood had not been weighed down with the useless things and nonsense that burden ours. Things entered his brain without a cloud in the way. The prior finally decided to have him read the New *Testament*. The Ingénu devoured it with great pleasure. But he did not know when or where all the events in the book had happened. He had no doubt that the setting was Lower Brittany, and he swore he would cut off the noses and ears of Caiaphas and Pilate if he ever met those scoundrels.

His uncle was delighted by these promising attitudes and soon explained the facts to him. He praised his zeal but told him it was useless, since those men had been dead for about sixteen hundred and ninety years. The Ingénu soon knew almost the whole book by heart. Sometimes he raised problems that greatly troubled the prior. The prior often had to consult the abbé de Saint-Yves, who did not know what to answer either. He sent for a Jesuit from Lower Brittany to finish converting the Huron.

At last grace did its work. The Ingénu promised to become a Christian. He had no doubt that he must begin by being circumcised. "In the book you had me read," he said, "I don't see a single person who wasn't circumcised. So clearly I have to sacrifice my foreskin, and the sooner the better." He did not hesitate. He sent for the village surgeon and asked him to perform the operation. He expected Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and everyone else to be delighted once it was done. The barber-surgeon had never performed this operation. He warned the family, who cried out in horror. Good Mademoiselle de Kerkabon trembled at the thought that her nephew, who seemed determined and quick to act, might clumsily operate on himself. It might have unfortunate consequences, which ladies always take an interest in out of the goodness of their hearts.

The prior corrected the Huron's ideas. He explained that circumcision had gone out of fashion, that baptism was much gentler and better for salvation, and that the law of grace was not like the law of severity. The Ingénu had plenty of common sense and honesty. He argued, but admitted his mistake—a fairly rare thing among people who argue in Europe. In the end he promised to be baptized whenever they wanted.

First he had to confess, and this was the hardest part. The Ingénu always carried the book his uncle had given him in his pocket. He could not find a single apostle in it who had gone to confession, and this made him very unwilling. The prior silenced him by showing him these words in the Epistle of Saint James the Less, which cause heretics so much trouble: *Confess your sins to one another*. The Huron said no more and confessed to a Recollect friar. When he finished, he pulled the friar out of the confessional, seized him with a powerful arm, took his place, and made him kneel in front of him. "Come on, my friend. It says, *Confess to one another*. I've told you my sins. You aren't leaving until you've told me yours." As he spoke, he pressed his broad knee against his opponent's chest. The Recollect gave howls that echoed through the church. People rushed toward the noise and saw the man preparing for baptism manhandling the monk in the name of Saint James the Less. Their delight at baptizing a Huron who was also Breton and English was so great that they overlooked these oddities. Many theologians even thought confession was unnecessary, since baptism took the place of everything else.

They fixed a day with the bishop of Saint-Malo. As you can imagine, he was flattered to be baptizing a Huron. He arrived in a splendid carriage with his clergy following him. Blessing God, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves put on her finest dress and sent for a hairdresser from Saint-Malo so that she would shine at the ceremony. The questioning bailiff hurried over with everyone in the district. The church was magnificently decorated. But when the time came to take the Huron to the baptismal font, he could not be found.

His uncle and aunt looked for him everywhere. They thought he had gone hunting as usual. All the guests invited to the celebration searched the woods and nearby villages. There was no news of the Huron.

They began to fear he had gone back to England. They remembered hearing him say how much he liked that country. The prior and his sister were convinced that nobody was baptized there, and they trembled for their nephew's soul. The bishop was bewildered and ready to leave. The prior and the abbé de Saint-Yves were in despair. The bailiff questioned every passerby with his usual solemnity. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon cried. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves did not cry, but she gave deep sighs that seemed to show her fondness for the sacraments. The two women were walking sadly beside the willows and reeds along the little Rance River when they saw a tall, rather white figure in the middle of the water, with his hands crossed on his chest. They gave a loud cry and turned away. But curiosity soon overcame every other consideration. They slipped quietly among the reeds, and once they were quite sure they could not be seen, they wanted to see what was going on.

### Chapter IV

The Ingénu is baptized.

The prior and the abbé hurried over and asked the Ingénu what he was doing there. "Well, good God, gentlemen! I'm waiting to be baptized. I've been standing up to my neck in water for an hour. It isn't decent to leave me here freezing."

"My dear nephew," the prior told him affectionately, "that isn't how people are baptized in Lower Brittany. Get dressed again and come with us." Hearing this, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves whispered to her companion, "Do you think he'll get dressed again so soon?"

But the Huron answered the prior, "You won't fool me this time the way you did before. I've studied carefully since then, and I'm quite certain there's no other way to be baptized. Queen Candace’s[a] eunuch was baptized in a stream. I challenge you to show me anywhere in the book you gave me that it was ever done differently. Either I'll be baptized in the river or I won't be baptized at all." They explained in vain that customs had changed. The Ingénu was stubborn, being both Breton and Huron. He kept coming back to Queen Candace's eunuch. His aunt and Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves had watched him from among the willows and were entitled to tell him that he was hardly the man to cite such an example. But they said nothing, so great was their discretion. The bishop himself came to speak to him, which was quite something. But he achieved nothing. The Huron argued with the bishop.

[a] *N. B.* "How could Father Quesnel have been unaware that the beautiful queens of Ethiopia were named Candace, in the same way that Egypt’s kings had the title Pharaoh or Pharon?"

"Show me a single man in the book my uncle gave me who wasn't baptized in a river," he told him, "and I'll do anything you want."

His desperate aunt had noticed that when her nephew first began bowing, he had bowed more deeply to Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves than to anyone else there. He had not even greeted the bishop with the respect mixed with warmth that he had shown this beautiful young woman. Faced with this great difficulty, his aunt decided to turn to her. She asked her to use her influence to persuade the Huron to be baptized in the same way as the Bretons. She did not believe her nephew could ever be a Christian if he insisted on being baptized in running water.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves blushed at her secret pleasure in being entrusted with such an important mission. She approached the Ingénu modestly, took his hand with great dignity, and said, "Won't you do anything for me?" As she spoke, she lowered her eyes and raised them again with a touching grace. "Oh, anything you want, mademoiselle, anything you command. Baptism by water, by fire, by blood—there's nothing I'll refuse you." Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves had the glory of accomplishing in two words what neither the prior's eager efforts, nor the bailiff's repeated questions, nor even the bishop's arguments had achieved. She felt her triumph, but she did not yet understand its full extent.

The baptism was given and received with all possible dignity, splendor, and charm. The uncle and aunt gave up to the abbé de Saint-Yves and his sister the honor of serving as the Ingénu's godparents at the font. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves glowed with joy at being a godmother. She did not know what restrictions that grand title placed on her. She accepted the honor without knowing its disastrous consequences.

Since no ceremony has ever taken place without a great dinner afterward, they sat down to eat when the baptism was over. The jokers of Lower Brittany said they mustn't baptize their wine with water. The prior said that wine, according to Solomon, gladdens the human heart. The bishop added that the patriarch Judah was to tie his donkey to the vine and dip his cloak in the blood of grapes. It was very sad that no one could do the same in Lower Brittany, where God had denied them vines. Everyone tried to make a witty remark about the Ingénu's baptism and pay a compliment to his godmother. Still asking questions, the bailiff asked the Huron whether he would keep his promises. "How could I break my promises," the Huron replied, "when I placed them in Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves’s hands?"

The Huron grew animated and drank many toasts to his godmother's health. "If you'd baptized me yourself," he said, "I feel sure the cold water poured on the back of my head would have burned me." The bailiff thought this too poetic. He did not know how familiar figurative language was in Canada. But the godmother was extremely pleased.

The newly baptized man had been named Hercules. The bishop of Saint-Malo kept asking who this patron saint was, since he had never heard of him. The Jesuit, who was very learned, told him he was a saint who had performed twelve miracles. There was a thirteenth worth all the other twelve, but it was not proper for a Jesuit to mention it: he had turned fifty girls into women in a single night. A joker who was there spoke up enthusiastically about this miracle. All the ladies lowered their eyes and judged from the Ingénu's appearance that he was worthy of the saint whose name he bore.

### Chapter V

The Ingénu falls in love.

It must be admitted that after the baptism and dinner, Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves passionately wished the bishop would let her share another lovely sacrament with Monsieur Hercules the Ingénu. But she was well brought up and very modest, so she did not dare fully admit her tender feelings even to herself. If a look, a word, a gesture, or a thought escaped her, she covered it all with a veil of wonderfully charming modesty. She was affectionate, lively, and sensible.

As soon as the bishop left, the Ingénu and Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves met without having realized they were looking for each other. They began talking without having imagined what they would say. The Ingénu immediately told her that he loved her with all his heart. The beautiful Abacaba, whom he had been mad about in his own country, came nowhere near her. With her usual modesty, she answered that he must speak as soon as possible to his uncle the prior and to his aunt. For her part, she would say a few words to her dear brother, the abbé de Saint-Yves, and she hoped they would all agree.

The Ingénu answered that he needed nobody's consent. It seemed completely ridiculous to him to go and ask other people what you should do. When two people agreed, they did not need a third to settle things between them. "I don't consult anyone," he said, "when I want to eat breakfast, hunt, or sleep. I understand that in love it's a good idea to get the consent of the person you're after. But I'm not in love with either my uncle or my aunt, so they're not the people I need to speak to about this. And if you take my advice, you'll do without the abbé de Saint-Yves as well."

You can imagine how the beautiful Breton used all her tact and intelligence to bring her Huron into line with proper behavior. She even became angry, then soon softened again. In the end, there is no knowing how the conversation would have finished if the abbé had not taken his sister home to his abbey as daylight faded. The Ingénu let his uncle and aunt go to bed. They were a little tired from the ceremony and their long dinner. He spent part of the night composing verses in Huron for his beloved. For you should know that there is no country on earth where love has not turned lovers into poets.

The next morning after breakfast, his uncle spoke to him in front of a deeply moved Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "Heaven be praised, my dear nephew, that you have the honor of being a Christian and a Breton of Lower Brittany! But that isn't enough. I'm getting on in years. My brother left only a little patch of land, which is worth very little. I have a good priory. If you'll just become a subdeacon, as I hope you will, I'll hand my priory over to you. You'll live very comfortably, after having comforted me in my old age."

The Ingénu answered, "Uncle, may it do you good! Live as long as you can. I don't know what being a subdeacon or handing over a priory means. But anything will suit me, as long as I can have Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves to myself." "Oh, my God, nephew, what are you saying? Are you madly in love with that beautiful young woman?" "Yes, uncle." "Sadly, my nephew, it's impossible for you to marry her." "It's quite possible, uncle. Not only did she squeeze my hand when we parted, she promised to ask to marry me. And I certainly will marry her." "It's impossible, I tell you. She's your godmother. It's a dreadful sin for a godmother to squeeze her godson's hand. You aren't allowed to marry your godmother. Divine and human laws forbid it." "Damn it, uncle, you're making fun of me! Why should it be forbidden to marry your godmother when she's young and pretty? I didn't see anything in the book you gave me saying it was wrong to marry girls who have helped people get baptized. Every day I notice that people here do an endless number of things that aren't in your book, and they don't do any of the things it says. I admit that surprises me and makes me angry. If you take the beautiful Saint-Yves away from me because of my baptism, I'm warning you: I'll carry her off and get myself unbaptized."

The prior was speechless. His sister cried. "My dear brother," she said, "we mustn't let our nephew be damned. Our Holy Father the pope can give him a dispensation, and then he can be happy as a Christian with the woman he loves." The Ingénu hugged his aunt. "Who is this delightful man," he asked, "who so kindly helps boys and girls with their love affairs? I want to go and speak to him right now."

They explained what the pope was, and the Ingénu was even more amazed than before. "There's not a word about any of this in your book, my dear uncle. I've traveled. I know the sea. We're here on the coast of the ocean. And I'm supposed to leave Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves to ask permission to love her from a man who lives near the Mediterranean, four hundred leagues away, and whose language I don't understand! That's so ridiculous I can't make sense of it. I'm going straight to the abbé de Saint-Yves, who lives only a league from you. I promise you I'll marry my sweetheart today."

He was still speaking when the bailiff came in and, as usual, asked where he was going. "I'm going to get married," said the Ingénu, running off. Within a quarter of an hour he was already at the home of his dear, beautiful girl from Lower Brittany, who was still asleep. "Oh, brother," Mademoiselle de Kerkabon told the prior, "you'll never make our nephew a subdeacon."

The bailiff was very unhappy about this visit. He intended his son to marry Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, and this son was even more stupid and unbearable than his father.

### Chapter VI

The Ingénu rushes to his sweetheart's home and becomes furious.

As soon as the Ingénu arrived, he asked an elderly servant where his sweetheart's room was. He pushed hard against the badly closed door and sprang toward the bed. Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves woke with a start and cried, "What! It's you! Oh, it's you! Stop! What are you doing?" He answered, "I'm marrying you." And he would indeed have married her if she had not struggled with all the decency of a well-brought-up person.

The Ingénu was not joking. He found all this behavior extremely improper. "Mademoiselle Abacaba, my first sweetheart, didn't behave like this. You aren't honest. You promised to marry me, and you don't want to go through with it. That breaks the most basic rules of honor. I'll teach you to keep your word and put you back on the path of virtue."

The Ingénu's virtue was manly and fearless, worthy of his patron Hercules, whose name he had been given at his baptism. He was about to use it to its fullest extent when the piercing cries of the more discreetly virtuous young woman brought the wise abbé de Saint-Yves running. With him came his housekeeper, a devout old manservant, and a parish priest. The sight of them dampened the attacker's courage. "Oh, my God, my dear neighbor!" the abbé said. "What are you doing?" "My duty," the young man answered. "I'm keeping my promises, which are sacred."

Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves put her clothes in order, blushing. They took the Ingénu into another room. The abbé explained how outrageous his behavior was. The Ingénu defended himself by appealing to the rights of natural law, which he knew perfectly. The abbé tried to prove that established law must always take priority, and that without agreements between people, the law of nature would almost always be nothing but natural robbery. "We need notaries," he told him, "priests, witnesses, contracts, dispensations." The Ingénu answered with the observation that native peoples have always made: "Then you must be very dishonest people, since you need so many precautions among yourselves."

The abbé had trouble answering this objection. "I admit," he said, "that there are many fickle people and rogues among us. There would be just as many among the Hurons if they were gathered in a great city. But there are also wise, honest, enlightened people, and they're the ones who made the laws. The better a person is, the more he should obey them. He sets an example for the wicked, who respect a restraint that virtue has imposed on itself."

This answer struck the Ingénu. We have already noted that he had good judgment. They soothed him with flattering words and gave him hope: the two traps that catch people in both hemispheres. They even brought Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves to him once she had finished dressing. Everything was completely proper. But despite this propriety, Hercules the Ingénu's blazing eyes still made his sweetheart lower hers and everyone else tremble.

They had a very hard time sending him home to his relatives. Once again they had to use the beautiful Saint-Yves's influence. The more she felt her power over him, the more she loved him. She made him leave and was deeply upset by it. Finally, once he had gone, the abbé decided to protect his ward from the eager attentions of this terrifying lover. He was not only Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves's much older brother but also her guardian. He went to consult the bailiff, who still intended his son to marry the abbé's sister and advised him to put the poor girl in a convent. This was a terrible blow. Even a woman who was not in love would cry out at being shut in a convent. But a woman in love, and one as sensible as she was affectionate! It was enough to drive her to despair.

Back at the prior's house, the Ingénu told the whole story with his usual candor. He received the same lectures. They had some effect on his mind and none on his senses. But the next day, when he wanted to return to his lovely sweetheart to reason with her about natural law and the law of agreement, the bailiff told him with insulting delight that she was in a convent. "All right," he said, "I'll go and reason in that convent." "That isn't possible," said the bailiff. He explained at great length what a convent, or religious community, was, and that the word came from the Latin *conventus*, meaning a gathering. The Huron could not understand why he could not be admitted to the gathering. As soon as he learned that this gathering was a kind of prison where girls were kept locked up—a horrible thing, unknown among the Hurons and the English—he became as furious as his patron Hercules had been when Eurytus, king of Oechalia, refused to give him his beautiful daughter Iole. Eurytus was no less cruel than the abbé de Saint-Yves, and Iole no less beautiful than the abbé's sister. The Ingénu wanted to set fire to the convent, carry off his sweetheart, or burn himself to death with her. Terrified, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon gave up more completely than ever on her hopes of seeing her nephew become a subdeacon. She said in tears that the devil had got into him since he was baptized.

### Chapter VII

The Ingénu drives back the English.

Sunk in deep, dark sadness, the Ingénu walked toward the seashore with his two-shot gun over his shoulder and his large cutlass at his side. Now and then he fired at birds, and often he was tempted to shoot himself. But he still loved life because of Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. Sometimes he cursed his uncle, his aunt, all of Lower Brittany, and his baptism. Sometimes he blessed them, since they had brought him to know the woman he loved. He made up his mind to burn down the convent, then stopped short for fear of burning his sweetheart. The waves of the English Channel are no more troubled by east and west winds than his heart was by so many opposing feelings.

He was striding along without knowing where he was going when he heard a drum. In the distance he saw a whole crowd, half running toward the shore and half running away.

A thousand cries rose from every side. Curiosity and courage immediately sent him rushing toward the place they came from. He reached it in four bounds. The militia commander, who had eaten supper with him at the prior's, recognized him at once and ran toward him with open arms. "Ah, it's the Ingénu! He'll fight for us." The militiamen, who were dying of fear, felt reassured and shouted too, "It's the Ingénu! It's the Ingénu!"

"Gentlemen," he said, "what's going on? Why are you so frightened? Have your sweethearts been put in convents?" A hundred confused voices shouted, "Can't you see the English coming ashore?" "Well," the Huron replied, "they're good people. They haven't taken my sweetheart away."

The commander explained that the English were coming to plunder the abbey of the Mountain, drink his uncle's wine, and perhaps carry off Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. The little ship on which he had landed in Brittany had only come to scout the coast. The English were committing hostile acts without having declared war on the king of France, and the province was unprotected. "Ah, if that's true, they're breaking natural law. Leave it to me. I lived among them for a long time, and I know their language. I'll speak to them. I can't believe they mean to do anything so wicked."

While they were talking, the English squadron was drawing closer. The Huron ran toward it, jumped into a little boat, reached the flagship, and climbed aboard. He asked whether it was true that they had come to lay waste to the country without having honestly declared war. The admiral and everyone aboard burst out laughing, gave him some punch, and sent him back.

Stung, the Ingénu now thought only of fighting hard against his former friends for his countrymen and the prior. Local gentlemen were hurrying in from all directions. He joined them. They had a few cannons; he loaded, aimed, and fired them one after another. The English landed. He ran at them, killed three with his own hands, and even wounded the admiral who had laughed at him. His bravery stirred the courage of the whole militia. The English went back aboard their ships, and the whole coast rang with cries of victory: "Long live the king! Long live the Ingénu!" Everyone hugged him. Everyone hurried to stop the bleeding from the few slight wounds he had received. "Oh," he said, "if Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves were here, she'd put a dressing on me."

The bailiff had hidden in his cellar during the battle. Now he came to congratulate him like everyone else. But he was very surprised to hear Hercules the Ingénu tell a dozen willing young men gathered around him, "My friends, freeing the abbey of the Mountain is nothing. We have to free a girl." Those few words set all these hotheaded young men on fire. A crowd was already following him, and they were running toward the convent. If the bailiff had not warned the commander at once, and if they had not run after this cheerful band, it would have been all over. They brought the Ingénu back to his uncle and aunt, who covered him with affectionate tears.

"I can see you'll never be a subdeacon or a prior," his uncle told him. "You'll be an even braver officer than my brother the captain, and probably just as poor." Mademoiselle de Kerkabon kept crying as she hugged him and said, "He'll get himself killed like my brother. It would be much better if he became a subdeacon."

During the battle, the Ingénu had picked up a large purse full of guineas, probably dropped by the admiral. He had no doubt that with this purse he could buy all of Lower Brittany and, above all, make Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves a great lady. Everyone urged him to go to Versailles to receive a reward for his services. The commander and the senior officers showered him with certificates. His uncle and aunt approved their nephew's journey. He was sure to be presented to the king, and that alone would give him tremendous standing in the province. The good couple added a substantial gift from their savings to the English purse. The Ingénu said to himself, "When I see the king, I'll ask him for Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves's hand in marriage, and he certainly won't refuse me." So he left to the cheers of the whole district, smothered in embraces, drenched with his aunt's tears, blessed by his uncle, and entrusting himself to the beautiful Saint-Yves.

### Chapter VIII

The Ingénu heads for court. On the way, he has supper with Huguenots.

The Ingénu traveled toward Saumur by coach, since there was no other transport available then. At Saumur he was surprised to find the town nearly empty, with several families moving out. He learned that six years earlier it had contained over fifteen thousand people, whereas now it had fewer than six thousand. Naturally, he brought this up at supper in his inn. Several Protestants were eating there. Some complained bitterly, some shook with anger, and others said through their tears,

"… We leave our pleasant fields,
We flee our homeland."

The Ingénu knew no Latin, so he asked what these words meant. They mean: We are leaving our pleasant countryside; we are fleeing our own country.

"Why are you fleeing your own country, gentlemen?" "Because they want us to recognize the pope." "Why shouldn't you recognize him? Don't you have any godmothers you want to marry? I've been told he's the one who gives permission for that." "Oh, sir, this pope says he is master of the kings' lands." "But what do you do for a living?" "Most of us are cloth merchants and manufacturers." "If your pope says he's master of your cloth and your factories, you're quite right not to recognize him. But as for the kings, that's their business. Why interfere?" A small man dressed in black then spoke up and gave a very learned account of the company's grievances. He spoke so forcefully about the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and so movingly about the fate of fifty thousand families driven into exile and fifty thousand more converted by dragoons, that the Ingénu began to cry too. "Why," he asked, "does such a great king, whose fame has reached even the Hurons, deprive himself of so many hearts that would have loved him and so many arms that would have served him?"

"Because he's been deceived, like other great kings," answered the man in black. "They've made him believe that as soon as he says a word, everyone will think as he does. They say he can make us change our religion as quickly as his musician Lulli changes the scenery in his operas. Not only is he already losing five hundred to six hundred thousand very useful subjects, but he's turning them into enemies. King William, who now rules England, has formed several regiments from these very Frenchmen who would have fought for their own king."

"This disaster is all the more astonishing because the present pope, to whom Louis XIV is sacrificing part of his people, is his declared enemy. The two have been in a bitter quarrel for nine years. It has gone so far that France at last hoped to see the yoke broken that has subjected her to this foreigner for so many centuries, and above all to stop giving him money, the chief driving force behind this world's affairs. Clearly, then, this great king has been misled about his own interests as well as the extent of his power, and the greatness of his heart has been injured."

More and more moved, the Ingénu asked which Frenchmen were deceiving a king so dear to the Hurons. "The Jesuits," they answered, "especially Father de La Chaise, His Majesty's confessor. We must hope God will punish them one day and that they'll be driven out as they're driving us out. Has anyone suffered as we have? Monsieur de Louvois sends Jesuits and dragoons at us from every direction."

"Well, gentlemen," replied the Ingénu, unable to hold back any longer, "I'm going to Versailles to receive the reward my services deserve. I'll speak to this Monsieur de Louvois. I've been told he runs the war from his study. I'll see the king and tell him the truth. Once people feel that truth, they can't help accepting it. I'll be back soon to marry Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, and you're all invited to the wedding." These good people now took him for a great lord traveling *incognito* by coach. Some took him for the king's fool.

A Jesuit in disguise was at the table, acting as a spy for the Reverend Father de La Chaise. He reported everything to him, and Father de La Chaise passed it on to Monsieur de Louvois. The spy wrote. The Ingénu and the letter reached Versailles at almost the same time.

### Chapter IX

The Ingénu reaches Versailles and is received at court.

The Ingénu gets out of a "chamber pot"[a] in the kitchen courtyard. He asks the chair carriers what time people can see the king. They laugh in his face, just as the English admiral did. He treats them the same way and beats them. They try to hit back, and there would have been bloodshed if a royal bodyguard, a Breton gentleman, had not passed by and driven the rabble off. "Sir," the traveler says, "you look like a good man. I'm the nephew of the prior of Our Lady of the Mountain. I've killed Englishmen, and I've come to speak to the king. Please take me to his room." Delighted to find a brave man from his own province, who seemed not to know court customs, the guard explained that people did not speak to the king like that. They had to be introduced by His Lordship de Louvois. "Then take me to this Lord de Louvois. He'll surely take me to His Majesty." "Speaking to Lord de Louvois is even harder than speaking to His Majesty," the guard replied. "But I'll take you to Monsieur Alexandre, the chief clerk for war. It's as good as speaking to the minister." They go to Monsieur Alexandre, the chief clerk, but cannot get in. He was occupied with a lady of the court, and nobody was to be admitted. "Well, nothing's lost," said the guard. "Let's see Monsieur Alexandre's chief clerk. It's as good as speaking to Monsieur Alexandre himself."

[a] This is a carriage running between Paris and Versailles, shaped like a small covered tipcart.

The astonished Huron follows him. They spend half an hour together in a little waiting room. "What does all this mean?" the Ingénu asks. "Is everyone invisible in this country? Fighting Englishmen in Lower Brittany is much easier than finding the people you need to deal with at Versailles." He passed the time by telling his fellow Breton about his love. But the clock struck and called the bodyguard back to his post. They promised to meet again the next day. The Ingénu spent another half hour in the waiting room, thinking about Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves and how hard it was to speak to kings and chief clerks.

At last the man in charge appeared. "Sir," the Ingénu told him, "if I'd waited to drive the English back as long as you've made me wait to see you, they'd now be ravaging Lower Brittany at their leisure." This struck the clerk. Finally he asked the Breton, "What do you want?" "A reward. Here are my credentials." He spread out all his certificates. The clerk read them and said he would probably be allowed to buy a lieutenant's commission. "What! Pay money for having driven back the English? Pay for the right to get killed for you while you sit here calmly receiving visitors? You must be joking. I want command of a cavalry company for nothing. I want the king to have Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves released from the convent and give her to me in marriage. I want to speak to him on behalf of fifty thousand families I intend to bring back to him. In short, I want to be useful. Give me a job and promote me."

"What's your name, sir, who speaks so loudly?" "Oh!" the Ingénu answered. "So you haven't read my certificates? Is that how things are done? My name is Hercules de Kerkabon. I've been baptized. I'm staying at the Cadran bleu, and I'll complain about you to the king." Like the people of Saumur, the clerk decided he was not quite right in the head and paid him little attention.

That same day, the Reverend Father de La Chaise, Louis XIV's confessor, had received his spy's letter. It accused the Breton Kerkabon of secretly supporting the Huguenots and condemning the Jesuits' conduct. Monsieur de Louvois, meanwhile, had received a letter from the questioning bailiff. It described the Ingénu as a scoundrel who wanted to burn convents and carry off girls.

After walking in the gardens of Versailles, where he was bored, and eating supper like a Huron and a Lower Breton, the Ingénu had gone to bed. He happily hoped to see the king the next day, win Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves in marriage, get at least a cavalry company to command, and stop the persecution of the Huguenots. He was soothing himself with these pleasant thoughts when the mounted police entered his room. First they seized his two-shot gun and his large saber. They made an inventory of his cash and took him to the castle that King Charles V, son of John II, had built near the rue Saint-Antoine, at the Tournelles gate.

You can imagine his astonishment on the way. At first he thought it was a dream. He remained stunned. Then, suddenly filled with a rage that doubled his strength, he grabs two of the men escorting him in the carriage by the throat and throws them out through the door. He jumps out after them, dragging along a third who tries to hold him back. The effort brings him down. They tie him up and put him back in the carriage. "So this is what you get," he said, "for driving the English out of Lower Brittany! Beautiful Saint-Yves, what would you say if you saw me like this?"

At last they reach the lodging chosen for him. They carry him silently into the room where he is to be locked up, like a dead man being carried into a cemetery. An old recluse from Port-Royal named Gordon was already there. He had been wasting away in that room for two years. "Here," the leader of the guards told him, "I've brought you company." Immediately they closed the huge bolts on the thick door, reinforced with broad bars. The two prisoners were cut off from the entire world.

### Chapter X

The Ingénu is locked in the Bastille with a Jansenist.

Monsieur Gordon was a healthy, calm old man who knew two important things: how to endure hardship and how to comfort people in distress. With an open, sympathetic expression, he approached his companion, embraced him, and said, "Whoever you are, coming here to share my tomb, you can be sure I'll always put myself aside to ease your suffering in this hellish pit we've been thrown into. Let's worship the Providence that brought us here, endure it peacefully, and hope." These words affected the Ingénu's heart like English drops that bring a dying man back to life and make him open his eyes a little in surprise.

After their first greetings, Gordon did not press him to explain his misfortune. Instead, his gentle conversation, and the concern two unhappy people feel for each other, made the young man want to open his heart and lay down the burden crushing him. But he could not guess the reason for his imprisonment. It seemed to him an effect without a cause, and good old Gordon was just as astonished as he was.

"God must have great plans for you," the Jansenist told the Huron, "since he brought you from Lake Ontario to England and France, had you baptized in Lower Brittany, and put you here for your salvation." "Honestly," the Ingénu answered, "I think the devil alone has been managing my fate. My fellow countrymen in America would never have treated me with the cruelty I'm suffering here. They wouldn't even think of it. People call them *savages*. They're decent people with rough manners; the men here are polished scoundrels. I certainly am surprised to have come from another world only to be locked up in this one behind four bolts with a priest. But then I think of the enormous number of people who leave one hemisphere to get killed in the other, or are shipwrecked on the way and eaten by fish. I can't see God's gracious plans for all those people."

Dinner was passed in through a hatch. They talked about Providence, royal orders of imprisonment, and the art of not giving in to the misfortunes everyone faces in this world. "I've been here for two years," the old man said, "with no comfort except myself and books. I haven't had a single moment of bad temper."

"Oh, Monsieur Gordon!" the Ingénu cried. "Then you aren't in love with your godmother? If you knew Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves as I do, you'd be in despair." At this he could not hold back his tears, and he felt a little less weighed down. "But why do tears bring relief?" he asked. "I'd have thought they would do the opposite." "My son," the good old man said, "everything in us is physical. Every secretion does the body good, and whatever relieves it relieves the soul. We're Providence's machines."

The Ingénu, who, as we have said several times, had a very capable mind, thought deeply about this idea. It seemed he had already carried its seed within him. Then he asked his companion why his machine had been behind four bolts for two years. "Because of efficacious grace," Gordon replied. "I'm considered a Jansenist. I knew Arnauld and Nicole; the Jesuits persecuted us. We believe the pope is only a bishop like any other. That's why Father de La Chaise got the king, whose confessions he hears, to order me deprived of humanity's most precious possession, freedom, without any legal proceedings." "That's very strange," said the Ingénu. "All the unfortunate people I've met owe their troubles to the pope."

"As for your efficacious grace, I admit I don't understand it. But I consider it a great grace that God has let me find, in my suffering, someone like you. You fill my heart with a comfort I thought I could never feel."

Their conversations became more interesting and instructive every day. The two prisoners grew deeply attached to each other. The old man knew a great deal; the young man badly wanted to learn. After a month he began studying geometry and devoured it. Gordon had him read Rohault's physics, which was still fashionable. He showed good judgment by finding only uncertainty in it.

Next he read the first volume of *The Search for Truth*. This new light helped him see. "What!" he said. "Our imagination and senses deceive us that much? Objects don't form our ideas, and we can't give them to ourselves?" After reading the second volume, he was less pleased. He concluded that tearing down is easier than building.

His companion was surprised to hear an uneducated young man make a reflection that normally belongs to experienced minds. He formed a high opinion of his intelligence and grew still more attached to him.

"Your Malebranche," the Ingénu told him one day, "seems to have written half his book with his reason and the other half with his imagination and prejudices."

A few days later Gordon asked, "What do you think about the soul, the way we receive our ideas, our will, grace, and free will?" "Nothing," the Ingénu replied. "If I thought anything, it would be that we're under the power of the eternal Being, like the stars and the elements; that he does everything in us; that we're little wheels in the immense machine of which he is the soul; and that he acts through general laws, not particular intentions. That's all that seems understandable to me. Everything else is a dark abyss."

"But, my son, that would make God the author of sin." "But, Father, your efficacious grace would make him the author of sin too. Everyone denied that grace would certainly sin. Isn't whoever hands us over to evil the author of evil?"

This straightforwardness greatly embarrassed the good man. He felt his efforts to get out of this bog were useless. He piled up so many words that seemed to mean something but meant nothing—along the lines of physical premotion—that the Ingénu pitied him. This question clearly led to the origin of good and evil. Poor Gordon then had to review Pandora's box, Orosmade's egg pierced by Arimane, the hatred between Typhon and Osiris, and finally original sin. Both ran about in that deep darkness without ever meeting. But in the end this novel about the soul took their eyes off their own misery. By a strange enchantment, the mass of disasters spread over the universe dulled their sense of their own troubles. They did not dare complain when everything was suffering.

But in the quiet of night, the image of beautiful Saint-Yves erased every thought of metaphysics and morals from her lover's mind. He woke with his eyes wet with tears. The old Jansenist forgot his efficacious grace, the abbé de Saint-Cyran, and Jansenius, to comfort a young man he believed to be in mortal sin.

After their reading and reasoning, they talked again about their adventures. When that talk had achieved nothing, they read together or separately. The young man's mind grew stronger and stronger. He would have gone especially far in mathematics if Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves had not distracted him.

He read histories, and they saddened him. The world seemed too wicked and too miserable. History is, in fact, nothing but a picture of crimes and disasters. The great mass of innocent, peaceful people always disappears on these vast stages. The characters are nothing but wicked, ambitious people. History seems to please only as tragedy does, and tragedy drags unless passions, crimes, and great misfortunes bring it to life. Clio, like Melpomene, must be armed with a dagger.

French history, like every other history, was full of horrors. Yet its beginnings seemed so revolting, its middle so dry, and even the time of Henry IV so petty, always so lacking in great monuments and so untouched by the fine discoveries that had brought fame to other nations, that he had to fight boredom to read all these obscure disasters crowded into one corner of the world.

Gordon agreed. Both laughed with pity whenever the rulers of Fezensac, Fesansaguet, and Astarac came up. Studying them would really be useful only to their heirs, if they had any. The great ages of the Roman republic made him indifferent to the rest of the earth for a while. The sight of Rome, victorious and giving laws to nations, filled his whole soul. He grew excited as he thought about this people, ruled for seven hundred years by a passion for freedom and glory.

So the days, weeks, and months went by. He would have thought himself happy in that home of despair if he had not been in love.

His kind heart also felt for the prior of Our Lady of the Mountain and tenderhearted Kerkabon. "What will they think," he often said, "when they get no news of me? They'll think I'm ungrateful." This thought tormented him. He pitied the people who loved him much more than he pitied himself.

### Chapter XI

How the Ingénu develops his abilities.

Reading broadens the soul, and a knowledgeable friend comforts it. Our prisoner had both these advantages, which he had never imagined before. "I'm tempted to believe in transformations," he said, "because I've been changed from a beast into a human being." He used some of the money he was allowed to spend to build a carefully chosen library. His friend encouraged him to write down his thoughts. Here is what he wrote about ancient history:

"I imagine nations were like me for a long time. They learned things only very late. For centuries they concerned themselves only with the passing moment, very little with the past, and never with the future. I've traveled five or six hundred leagues through Canada without finding a single monument. Nobody there knows anything about what his great-grandfather did. Could this be humanity's natural condition? The people of this continent seem superior to those of the other. For several centuries, arts and knowledge have enlarged their lives. Is it because they have beards on their chins, while God denied beards to Americans? I don't think so. I see that the Chinese have almost no beards, yet have practiced the arts for over five thousand years. Indeed, if they have over four thousand years of written records, their nation must have been united and flourishing for more than fifty centuries.

"One thing especially strikes me in this ancient Chinese history: almost everything in it is believable and natural. I admire it because it has nothing miraculous in it.

"Why have all the other nations given themselves imaginary origins? The old chroniclers of French history, who aren't very old themselves, trace the French back to Francus, a son of Hector. The Romans claimed descent from a Phrygian, although their language had not a single word with the slightest connection to the language of Phrygia. Gods had lived in Egypt for ten thousand years, and devils lived in Scythia, where they fathered the Huns. Before Thucydides I see only romances like the Amadis stories, but much less entertaining. Everywhere there are apparitions, oracles, miracles, spells, transformations, and interpreted dreams that decide the fate of the greatest empires and smallest states. Here animals speak; there animals are worshiped. Gods turn into men, and men turn into gods. Oh, if we must have fables, at least let them represent truth! I like philosophers' fables, laugh at children's, and hate those of frauds."

One day he came across a history of the emperor Justinian. It said that some uneducated men in Constantinople had issued, in very bad Greek, a decree against the greatest military commander of the age. In the heat of conversation this hero had said, "Truth shines by its own light. You don't enlighten minds with the flames of burning stakes." The uneducated men declared this statement heretical and smelling of heresy. They declared its opposite Catholic, universal, and Greek: "Only the flames of burning stakes enlighten minds, and truth cannot shine by its own light." These linen-robed men condemned several statements by the commander in this way and issued a decree.

"What!" the Ingénu cried. "Those people issued decrees?" "Not decrees," Gordon replied, "counter-decrees. Everyone in Constantinople laughed at them, the emperor most of all. He was a wise prince who had managed to restrict these uneducated, linen-robed men to doing good. He knew that these gentlemen and various other long-robed priests had worn out his predecessors' patience with counter-decrees on more serious subjects." "He did very well," said the Ingénu. "Priests should be supported and kept under control."

He wrote down many more thoughts that alarmed old Gordon. "What!" Gordon said to himself. "I've spent fifty years learning, and I'm afraid I can't reach the natural good sense of this almost uncivilized boy! I tremble to think I may have worked hard at strengthening prejudices. He listens only to nature."

The good man had a few of those little books of criticism, those regular pamphlets where people incapable of producing anything run down other people's work, where Visés insult Racines and Faydits insult Fénelons. The Ingénu looked through some. "I compare them," he said, "to certain little flies that lay their eggs in the backsides of the finest horses. That doesn't stop the horses running." The two philosophers scarcely bothered to glance at this literary excrement.

Soon they read the basics of astronomy together. The Ingénu sent for globes of the heavens. This great sight delighted him. "How hard it is," he said, "to begin learning about the sky only when I'm robbed of the right to look at it! Jupiter and Saturn travel through those immense spaces. Millions of suns light billions of worlds. And in the corner of earth I've been thrown into, there are beings who deprive me, a being who sees and thinks, of all those worlds my eyes could reach, and of the world where God had me born! The light made for the whole universe is lost to me. Nobody hid it from me in the northern skies where I spent my childhood and youth. Without you, dear Gordon, I'd be living here in nothingness."

### Chapter XII

What the Ingénu thinks about plays.

The young Ingénu was like a strong tree grown in poor soil: once moved to good ground, it quickly spreads its roots and branches. It was remarkable that a prison should be that good ground.

Among the books the two prisoners read in their free time were poems, translations of Greek tragedies, and some French plays. Verses about love brought the Ingénu both pleasure and pain. They all spoke to him of his dear Saint-Yves. The fable of the Two Pigeons pierced his heart. He was very far from being able to return to his own dovecote.

Molière delighted him. He showed him the ways of Paris and of humanity. "Which of his comedies do you like best?" "*Tartuffe*, without question." "I agree," said Gordon. "A tartuffe put me in this dungeon, and perhaps tartuffes caused your troubles too."

"What do you think of these Greek tragedies?" "Good for Greeks," said the Ingénu. But when he read the modern *Iphigenia*, *Phaedra*, *Andromache*, and *Athalie*, he was carried away. He sighed and cried. He knew them by heart without trying to learn them.

"Read *Rodogune*," Gordon told him. "They say it's the theater's masterpiece. The other plays that gave you so much pleasure are little beside it." On the very first page the young man said, "This isn't by the same author." "How can you tell?" "I don't know yet. But these verses reach neither my ear nor my heart." "Oh, verse is nothing," Gordon replied. "Then why write it?" the Ingénu answered.

He read the play very carefully, wanting nothing but pleasure. Then he looked at his friend with dry, astonished eyes, not knowing what to say. At last, pressed to explain what he had felt, he answered, "I hardly understood the beginning. The middle disgusted me. The last scene moved me a great deal, though I don't find it very believable. I cared about nobody, and I haven't remembered twenty lines, although I remember every line when I like them."

"Yet it's considered our best play." "If so," he replied, "perhaps it's like many people who don't deserve their positions. After all, this is a question of taste. Mine can't be developed yet. I may be wrong, but you know I'm fairly used to saying what I think, or rather what I feel. I suspect people's judgments often contain illusion, fashion, and whim. I've spoken from nature. Perhaps nature in me is very imperfect. But perhaps most people sometimes pay too little attention to it." Then he recited verses from *Iphigenia*, which filled his mind. Although he did not deliver them well, he put so much truth and feeling into them that he made the old Jansenist cry. Next he read *Cinna*. He did not cry, but he admired it.

### Chapter XIII

Beautiful Saint-Yves goes to Versailles.

While our unfortunate young man gained more knowledge than comfort, while his abilities, held back for so long, developed with such speed and strength, and while nature, improving within him, took revenge for fortune's insults, what happened to the prior, his good sister, and beautiful Saint-Yves in her confinement? For the first month they worried; by the third they were deep in grief. False guesses and unfounded rumors frightened them. After six months they thought he was dead. At last Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Kerkabon learned from an old letter, written to Brittany by one of the king's guards, that a young man like the Ingénu had reached Versailles one evening. He had been taken away during the night, and nobody had heard of him since.

"Oh dear!" said Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "Our nephew must have done something foolish and got himself into trouble. He's young and from Lower Brittany. He can't know how to behave at court. Dear brother, I've never seen Versailles or Paris. Here's a fine chance. Perhaps we'll find our poor nephew. He's our brother's son, and helping him is our duty. Who knows whether we might finally manage to make him a subdeacon, once his youthful excitement has cooled? He had a real gift for learning. Do you remember how he reasoned about the Old and New *Testaments*? We're responsible for his soul. We're the ones who had him baptized. His dear sweetheart Saint-Yves spends her days crying. We really must go to Paris. If he's hiding in one of those wicked houses of pleasure I've heard so much about, we'll get him out." Her words moved the prior. He went to the bishop of Saint-Malo, who had baptized the Huron, to ask for his protection and advice. The bishop approved the journey. He gave the prior letters of introduction to Father de La Chaise, the king's confessor, who held the kingdom's highest office; to Harlay, archbishop of Paris; and to Bossuet, bishop of Meaux.

At last brother and sister set out. But in Paris they felt lost in an enormous maze, with no thread to guide them and no way out. They had little money. Every day they needed carriages to go looking for information, and they found nothing.

The prior went to see the Reverend Father de La Chaise. He was with Mademoiselle Du Tron and could not receive priors. He went to the archbishop's door. The bishop was shut away with beautiful Madame de Lesdiguières on Church business. He hurried to the bishop of Meaux's country house. That bishop was examining Madame Guyon's mystical love with Mademoiselle de Mauléon. Still, he managed to get a hearing from these two bishops. Both told him they could not get involved with his nephew because he was not a subdeacon.

At last he saw the Jesuit. He welcomed the prior with open arms and assured him he had always held him in special regard, although he had never known him. He swore the Society had always been devoted to Lower Bretons. "But could your nephew have the misfortune to be a Huguenot?" "Certainly not, Reverend Father." "Perhaps a Jansenist?" "I can assure Your Reverence he's hardly a Christian yet. We baptized him about eleven months ago." "Very good, very good. We'll look after him. Is your benefice a large one?" "Oh, it's very little, and our nephew costs us a great deal." "Are there any Jansenists nearby? Be very careful, dear prior. They're more dangerous than Huguenots and atheists." "Reverend Father, we have none. At Our Lady of the Mountain, nobody knows what Jansenism is." "So much the better. Go now. There's nothing I won't do for you." He sent the prior away affectionately and never thought about him again.

Time went by. The prior and his good sister were losing hope.

Meanwhile, the cursed bailiff was pushing ahead with the marriage of his great fool of a son to beautiful Saint-Yves. She had been brought out of the convent especially for it. She still loved her dear godson as much as she hated the husband offered to her. The insult of being put in a convent had made her love stronger; the order to marry the bailiff's son brought it to its height. Regret, love, and horror threw her soul into turmoil. As everyone knows, love makes a young woman much more inventive and daring than affection makes an old prior or an aunt over forty-five. Besides, the novels she had secretly read in the convent had taught her a great deal. Beautiful Saint-Yves remembered the bodyguard's letter to Lower Brittany, which people had discussed throughout the province. She decided to go to Versailles herself to make inquiries. If her husband was in prison, as people said, she would throw herself at the ministers' feet and get justice for him. Something secretly told her that at court a pretty girl is refused nothing. But she did not know the price.

Once she has decided, she feels comforted and calm. She no longer pushes her foolish suitor away. She welcomes the hateful prospective father-in-law, treats her brother lovingly, and fills the house with happiness. Then, on the day of the ceremony, she leaves secretly at four in the morning with her little wedding gifts and everything she has managed to gather. She had planned so well that she was already more than ten leagues away when they entered her room around noon. They were greatly surprised and dismayed. The questioning bailiff asked more questions that day than he had all week. The bridegroom looked more foolish than ever. Furious, the abbé de Saint-Yves decided to chase his sister. The bailiff and his son wanted to come too. So fate was bringing almost that whole district of Lower Brittany to Paris.

Beautiful Saint-Yves expected to be followed. She rode on horseback and cleverly asked couriers whether they had met a fat abbé, an enormous bailiff, and a young fool hurrying along the Paris road. On the third day she learned they were close behind. She took another route and was skillful and lucky enough to reach Versailles while they searched Paris for her in vain.

But what could she do at Versailles? Young and beautiful, unknown, with nobody to advise or support her and exposed to every danger, how could she dare look for one of the king's guards? She thought of approaching a lower-ranking Jesuit. There were Jesuits for every station in life. Just as God, they said, had given different foods to different species of animals, he had given the king his confessor, whom everyone seeking a benefice called *the head of the Gallican Church*. Then came the princesses' confessors. Ministers had none; they were not that foolish. There were Jesuits for the common royal household, and especially Jesuits for chambermaids, through whom their mistresses' secrets became known. That was no small job. Beautiful Saint-Yves approached one of these last, named Father Tout-à-tous. She confessed to him, explained her adventures, her situation, and her danger, and begged him to find her a room with some good devout woman who would keep her safe from temptation.

Father Tout-à-tous took her to the wife of an officer in the royal cup service, one of the penitents he trusted most. Once there, she quickly tried to win the woman's trust and friendship. She asked about the Breton guardsman and sent a request for him to visit her. He told her that her lover had been taken away after speaking to a chief clerk. She rushes to that clerk. The sight of a beautiful woman softens him, for we must admit that God created women only to tame men.

The softened pen-pusher told her everything. "Your lover has been in the Bastille for nearly a year. Without you he might stay there all his life." Loving Saint-Yves fainted. When she came to, the pen-pusher said, "I have no influence to do good. All my power amounts to doing harm now and then. Take my advice and see Monsieur de Saint-Pouange, who does both good and harm. He's Lord de Louvois's cousin and favorite. This minister has two souls: Monsieur de Saint-Pouange is one, Madame Dufresnoy the other. But she's not at Versailles just now. Your only option is to win over the protector I've named." Beautiful Saint-Yves hurried to Monsieur de Saint-Pouange, torn between a little joy and terrible grief, between some hope and sad fears, pursued by her brother, adoring her lover, wiping her tears and shedding more, trembling and weak, yet gathering courage again.

### Chapter XIV

The Ingénu's mind develops.

The Ingénu quickly advanced in the sciences, especially the study of human beings. His mind developed so quickly almost as much because of his upbringing outside civilization as because of his character. Having learned nothing as a child, he had learned no prejudices. His understanding had never been bent by error and had stayed entirely straight. He saw things as they are, whereas the ideas given to us in childhood make us see them throughout life as they are not. "Your persecutors are horrible," he told his friend Gordon. "I feel sorry for you because you're oppressed, but I also feel sorry for you because you're a Jansenist. Every sect seems to me a gathering around error. Tell me, are there sects in geometry?" "No, my dear boy," good Gordon said with a sigh. "Everyone agrees about truth when it's proved, but people are too divided about obscure truths." "Call them obscure falsehoods. If a single truth had been hidden in those heaps of arguments people have gone over for so many centuries, surely it would have been found. The whole world would at least have agreed on that point. If this truth were as necessary as the sun is to the earth, it would shine like the sun. It's absurd, an insult to humanity, an attack on the infinite and supreme Being, to say there's a truth essential to human beings and God has hidden it." Everything this ignorant young man, taught by nature, said deeply affected the unfortunate old scholar. "Can it really be," he cried, "that I've made myself miserable over fantasies? I'm much more certain of my misery than of efficacious grace. I've used up my days arguing about God's freedom and humanity's, but I've lost my own. Neither Saint Augustine nor Saint Prosper will get me out of the pit I'm in."

At last the Ingénu spoke in his usual way. "May I speak to you with bold frankness? People who get themselves persecuted over these pointless academic disputes seem unwise to me. The persecutors seem like monsters."

The two prisoners agreed completely that their imprisonment was unjust. "I deserve a hundred times more pity than you," the Ingénu said. "I was born free as the air. I had two lives: freedom and the person I love. They've taken both away. Here we both are in chains, without knowing why or being allowed to ask. I lived as a Huron for twenty years. People call them barbarians because they take revenge on their enemies, but they've never oppressed their friends. I'd hardly set foot in France before I shed my blood for her. I may have saved a province. My reward is to be swallowed up in this tomb for the living, where I'd have died of rage without you. Are there no laws in this country? People are condemned without a hearing! It isn't like that in England. Oh, I shouldn't have been fighting the English." His new philosophy could not subdue a nature violated in its most basic right, and it let his justified anger run free.

His companion did not disagree. Absence always strengthens love that has not been satisfied, and philosophy does not lessen it. He spoke about his dear Saint-Yves as often as about morals and metaphysics. As his feelings became purer, his love grew. He read some new novels but found few that pictured what was happening in his soul. He felt his heart always went beyond what he read. "Oh," he said, "nearly all these writers have nothing but cleverness and skill." Gradually, the good Jansenist priest became the person he confided in about his love. Before this, Gordon had known love only as a sin people admit in confession. He learned to know it as a feeling both noble and tender, able to raise the soul as well as soften it, and even sometimes to produce virtues. Finally, one last marvel: a Huron was converting a Jansenist.

### Chapter XV

The beautiful Saint-Yves resists some delicate proposals.

The beautiful Saint-Yves, even more loving than her lover, went to see Monsieur de Saint-Pouange with the friend she was staying with. Both women kept their faces hidden under their hoods. The first person she saw at the door was her brother, the abbé de Saint-Yves, coming out. This frightened her, but her devout friend reassured her. "It's precisely because someone has spoken against you that you need to speak for yourself. You can be sure that in this country the accusers are always right unless you hurry to prove them wrong. Besides, unless I'm badly mistaken, your presence will have more effect than your brother's words."

A woman passionately in love needs only a little encouragement to become fearless. Saint-Yves presented herself at the audience. Her youth, her beauty, and her tender eyes, wet with a few tears, drew everyone's attention. Every courtier around the deputy minister forgot the idol of power for a moment to gaze at the idol of beauty. Saint-Pouange took her into a private room. She spoke with feeling and grace. Saint-Pouange felt moved. She was trembling, and he reassured her. "Come back this evening," he told her. "Your affairs deserve some thought and a leisurely discussion. There are too many people here, and audiences are rushed through. I need to talk to you fully about everything that concerns you." Then, after praising her beauty and her feelings, he told her to come at seven that evening.

She came on time. Her devout friend went with her again, but stayed in the sitting room and read *The Christian Educator* while Saint-Pouange and the beautiful Saint-Yves were in the inner room. "Would you believe, mademoiselle," he began, "that your brother came to ask me for a royal warrant to imprison you? Honestly, I'd sooner issue one to send him back to Lower Brittany." "Oh, sir! Your offices must hand out these warrants very freely, if people come asking for them from the far end of the kingdom, as if they were pensions. I would never ask for one against my brother. I have a great deal to complain of in his behavior, but I respect people's freedom. I'm asking for the freedom of a man I want to marry. The king owes it to him that a province was saved. He can serve the king well, and he is the son of an officer killed in the king's service. What is he accused of? How could anyone treat him so cruelly without hearing him?"

Then the deputy minister showed her the letter from the Jesuit spy and the one from the treacherous bailiff. "What! Can there be monsters like this on earth? And this is how they mean to force me to marry the ridiculous son of a ridiculous, wicked man! Is this the sort of report you use here to decide people's fate?" She fell to her knees and, sobbing, begged for the freedom of the brave man who adored her. In this position her beauty showed to its greatest advantage. She was so beautiful that Saint-Pouange lost all shame. He hinted that she would succeed if she began by letting him be the first to enjoy what she was saving for her lover. Saint-Yves, horrified and embarrassed, pretended for a long time not to understand him. He had to make himself clearer. One word, spoken cautiously at first, led to a stronger one, then another more explicit still. He offered not only to cancel the royal warrant, but also rewards, money, honors, and secure positions. The more he promised, the more desperate he became not to be refused.

Saint-Yves was crying and gasping for breath, half collapsed on a sofa. She could hardly believe what she saw and heard. Saint-Pouange, in his turn, fell to his knees before her. He was not without charm, and might not have frightened off a heart less firmly committed. But Saint-Yves adored her lover and thought it would be a terrible crime to betray him in order to help him. Saint-Pouange doubled his pleas and promises. At last he became so carried away that he declared this was the only way to get the man she cared for so deeply and tenderly out of prison. This strange conversation dragged on. In the next room, the devout woman said as she read her *Christian Educator*, "My God! What can they have been doing in there for two hours? His lordship Saint-Pouange has never given such a long audience. Perhaps he has refused that poor girl everything, since she's still pleading with him."

At last her companion came out of the inner room, distraught and unable to speak. She was thinking deeply about the character of the great and the not-so-great, who so casually sacrifice men's freedom and women's honor.

She said nothing all the way back. Once they reached her friend's home, she burst out and told her everything. The devout woman made many signs of the cross. "My dear friend, first thing tomorrow we must consult Father Tout-à-tous, our spiritual adviser. He has a great deal of influence with Monsieur de Saint-Pouange. He hears the confessions of several maids in his household. He's a devout, accommodating man who also guides women of high rank. Put yourself in his hands. That's what I do, and it has always worked out well for me. We poor women need a man to guide us." "Well then, my dear friend, I'll go and see Father Tout-à-tous tomorrow."

### Chapter XVI

She consults a Jesuit.

As soon as the beautiful, miserable Saint-Yves was with her good confessor, she told him that a powerful, pleasure-loving man had offered to free the man she was to marry legally. In return, he demanded a great price. She felt a terrible disgust at the thought of being unfaithful in this way. If only her own life were at stake, she would give it up rather than give in.

"What an abominable sinner!" Father Tout-à-tous told her. "You really should tell me this wicked man's name. He's certainly some Jansenist. I'll report him to His Reverence Father de La Chaise, who will have him put in the same lodgings as the dear person you're to marry."

After much embarrassment and a long struggle to make up her mind, the poor girl finally named Saint-Pouange.

"His lordship Saint-Pouange!" the Jesuit cried. "Ah, my daughter, that's quite another matter. He's a cousin of the greatest minister we've ever had—a good man, a protector of the good cause, a good Christian. He can't have had any such thought. You must have misunderstood." "Oh, Father, I understood only too well. I'm lost whatever I do. I can only choose between misery and shame. Either my lover must stay buried alive, or I must make myself unworthy to live. I can't let him die, and I can't save him."

Father Tout-à-tous tried to calm her with these gentle words:

"First, my daughter, never use that expression, *my lover*. There's something worldly about it that might offend God. Say *my husband*. Although he isn't your husband yet, you think of him as such, and nothing could be more proper.

"Second, although he is your husband in your thoughts and hopes, he isn't in fact. So you wouldn't be committing adultery, a dreadful sin that must always be avoided as far as possible.

"Third, actions don't carry the guilt of sin when the intention is pure. And nothing could be purer than freeing your husband.

"Fourth, you have examples from the early days of the Church that can be wonderfully helpful in guiding your conduct. Saint Augustine tells us that under the proconsul Septimius Acyndinus, in the year 340 of our salvation, a poor man couldn't pay Caesar what belonged to Caesar. He was sentenced to death, as was right, despite the saying, *Where there is nothing, the king loses his rights*. The sum involved was a pound of gold. The condemned man had a wife whom God had made beautiful and wise. A rich old man promised to give the woman a pound of gold, or even more, on condition that he commit the filthy sin with her. The woman didn't think she was doing wrong by saving her husband. Saint Augustine warmly approves of her generous submission. It's true that the rich old man cheated her, and perhaps her husband was hanged just the same. But she had done everything in her power to save his life.

"Be sure, my daughter, that when a Jesuit quotes Saint Augustine to you, that saint must be completely right. I'm not advising you to do anything. You're sensible. Presumably you'll be of help to your husband. His lordship Saint-Pouange is an honorable man. He won't deceive you. That's all I can tell you. I'll pray to God for you, and I hope everything will turn out to his greater glory."

The beautiful Saint-Yves was as frightened by the Jesuit's words as by the deputy minister's proposals. She went back to her friend's house in despair. She was tempted to escape through death both the horror of leaving the lover she adored in a dreadful prison and the shame of freeing him at the price of what she valued most—what should belong only to that unfortunate lover.

### Chapter XVII

She gives in out of virtue.

She begged her friend to kill her. But this woman, as willing to make allowances as the Jesuit, spoke even more plainly. "Sadly," she said, "that's how nearly everything gets done at this court, so charming, so gallant, so famous. Both the lowest and the highest positions have often been given only at the price they're demanding from you. Listen, you've made me feel friendship and trust toward you. I'll admit that if I'd been as hard to persuade as you are, my husband wouldn't have the little post that supports him. He knows it. Far from being angry, he sees me as his benefactor and considers himself someone who owes his position to me. Do you think everyone who has governed a province or even commanded an army owed his honors and fortune to his service alone? Some owe them to their wives. Love has been used to ask for military ranks, and the post has gone to the prettiest woman's husband.

"Your situation is much more compelling. You need to bring your lover back into the daylight and marry him. That's a sacred duty you must carry out. No one blamed the beautiful, high-ranking ladies I'm telling you about. People will applaud you. They'll say you allowed yourself a moment of weakness only because you had too much virtue." "Oh, what virtue!" cried the beautiful Saint-Yves. "What a maze of wickedness! What a country! And how I'm learning to understand people! A Father de La Chaise and a ridiculous bailiff have my lover put in prison. My family persecutes me. The only helping hand I'm offered in my misery is meant to dishonor me. One Jesuit has ruined a brave man, and another wants to ruin me. There are traps all around me, and I'm on the point of falling into destitution. I must kill myself or speak to the king. I'll throw myself at his feet as he passes on his way to Mass or the theater."

"They won't let you near him," her good friend told her. "And if you did have the misfortune to speak, Monsieur de Louvois and the Reverend Father de La Chaise could bury you in the depths of a convent for the rest of your life."

While this worthy woman was making the desperate girl's confusion still worse and driving the dagger into her heart, a special messenger arrived from Monsieur de Saint-Pouange with a letter and two beautiful earrings. Saint-Yves rejected everything in tears, but her friend took charge of it all.

As soon as the messenger left, her confidante read the letter, which invited both friends to a small supper that evening. Saint-Yves swore she wouldn't go. The devout woman wanted to try the two diamond earrings on her. Saint-Yves wouldn't allow it. She struggled all day. At last, thinking only of her lover, defeated and swept along, not knowing where she was being taken, she let herself be led to the fatal supper. Nothing had persuaded her to wear the earrings. Her confidante brought them and put them on her against her will before they sat down at the table. Saint-Yves was so embarrassed and so upset that she let herself be tormented. Her patron took this as a very encouraging sign. Toward the end of the meal, her confidante discreetly withdrew. The patron then showed her the order canceling the royal warrant for imprisonment, a document granting a large payment, and another granting command of a company. He was generous with his promises. "Oh!" Saint-Yves told him. "How I would love you if you didn't want to be loved so much!"

At last, after a long resistance, after sobs, cries, and tears, exhausted by the struggle, distraught and faint, she had to give in. Her only comfort was to promise herself that she would think only of the Ingénu while the cruel man ruthlessly enjoyed the desperate situation she had been forced into.

### Chapter XVIII

She frees her lover and a Jansenist.

At daybreak she rushed to Paris with the minister's order. It's hard to describe what was happening in her heart during that journey. Imagine a noble, virtuous soul, humiliated by her disgrace, drunk with love, torn by remorse for betraying her lover, and filled with the joy of freeing the man she adored! Her bitter feelings, her struggles, and her success all competed for her thoughts. She was no longer the simple girl whose provincial upbringing had kept her ideas narrow. Love and suffering had educated her. Her feelings had developed as much as reason had developed in her unfortunate lover's mind. Girls learn to feel more easily than men learn to think. Her experience had taught her more than four years in a convent.

She was dressed very simply. She looked with horror on the finery she had worn before her disastrous benefactor. She had left her diamond earrings with her companion without even looking at them. Ashamed and delighted, worshiping the Ingénu and hating herself, she finally arrived at the gate of

… that terrible castle, a palace of revenge,
Where the guilty and the innocent are often held.

When it was time to get out of the carriage, her strength failed. Someone helped her. She went in with her heart pounding, her eyes wet, and her face full of distress. She was taken to the governor. She tried to speak to him, but her voice died away. She showed him her order, barely managing a few words. The governor liked his prisoner and was very glad he was being freed. His heart hadn't hardened like those of some of his honorable fellow jailers. Thinking only of the payment they received for guarding their captives, basing their income on their victims, and living off other people's misery, those men took a dreadful, secret pleasure in the tears of the unfortunate.

He had the prisoner brought to his rooms. The two lovers saw each other, and both fainted. The beautiful Saint-Yves lay motionless and lifeless for a long time. The Ingénu soon recovered his strength of mind. "This is your wife, I assume," the governor told him. "You hadn't told me you were married. I'm informed that you owe your release to her generous efforts." "Oh, I'm not worthy to be his wife," said the beautiful Saint-Yves in a trembling voice, and she fainted again.

When she came to, she showed him, still trembling, the document granting the payment and the written promise of command of a company. The Ingénu, as astonished as he was moved, seemed to wake from one dream only to fall into another. "Why was I locked up here? How did you manage to get me out? Where are the monsters who put me here? You're a goddess coming down from heaven to help me."

The beautiful Saint-Yves lowered her eyes, looked at her lover, blushed, and a moment later turned her tearful eyes away. At last she told him everything she knew and everything she had gone through, except what she wished she could hide from herself forever. Anyone but the Ingénu, anyone with more experience of the world and more knowledge of the ways of the court, would easily have guessed it.

"Can a wretch like that bailiff really have had the power to take my freedom away? Oh, I see that people are like the lowest animals: all of them can do harm. But can a monk, a Jesuit who hears the king's confessions, really have done as much to cause my suffering as that bailiff? I can't even imagine what excuse that hateful scoundrel used to persecute me. Did he claim I was a Jansenist? And how did you remember me? I didn't deserve it. I was only a savage then. What! With no advice and no help, you managed to set out for Versailles! You appeared there, and my chains were broken! Then beauty and virtue do have an irresistible charm that brings down iron doors and softens hearts of bronze!"

At the word *virtue*, the beautiful Saint-Yves broke into sobs. She didn't know how virtuous she had been in committing the crime she blamed herself for.

Her lover went on: "Angel who broke my chains, if you had enough influence to get justice for me—something I still don't understand—please get it for an old man too. He first taught me to think, just as you taught me to love. Misery brought us together. I love him like a father. I can't live without either you or him."

"Me! Ask a favor of the same man who…" "Yes, I want to owe everything to you, and never owe anything to anyone else. Write to that powerful man. Shower me with your kindness. Finish what you've begun. Complete your miracles." She felt she had to do everything her lover asked. She tried to write, but her hand wouldn't obey. Three times she began her letter again, and three times she tore it up. At last she wrote it, and the two lovers left after embracing the old martyr to efficacious grace.

Saint-Yves, happy and miserable, knew where her brother was staying and went there. Her lover took rooms in the same house.

Hardly had they arrived when her protector sent her the order for good old Gordon's release and asked to meet her the next day. So her dishonor was the price of every decent, generous act she performed. She looked with disgust on this practice of selling human misery and happiness. She gave her lover the release order and refused to meet a benefactor she could no longer see without dying of sorrow and shame. The Ingénu could leave her only to free a friend. He rushed there. As he fulfilled this duty, he reflected on the strange events of this world and admired the courageous virtue of a young woman to whom two unhappy men owed more than their lives.

### Chapter XIX

The Ingénu, the beautiful Saint-Yves, and their relatives come together.

The generous, admirable woman who had been unfaithful was with her brother, the abbé de Saint-Yves, the good prior of Our Lady of the Mountain, and Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. They were all equally astonished, but their situations and feelings were very different. The abbé de Saint-Yves wept over his wrongdoing at his sister's feet, and she forgave him. The prior and his loving sister were crying too, but with joy. The wicked bailiff and his unbearable son didn't disturb this moving scene. They had left at the first news that their enemy was being freed. They were hurrying back to bury their foolishness and fear in their province.

Stirred by a hundred different feelings, the four of them waited for the young man to return with the friend he was going to free. The abbé de Saint-Yves didn't dare look his sister in the eye. Good Mademoiselle de Kerkabon said, "So I'll see my dear nephew again!" "You will," said the lovely Saint-Yves, "but he isn't the same man anymore. His manner, his way of speaking, his ideas, his mind—everything has changed. He has become as worthy of respect as he used to be naïve and unfamiliar with everything. He'll bring honor and comfort to your family. If only I could make mine happy too!" "You aren't the same either," said the prior. "What has happened to change you so much?"

In the middle of this conversation, the Ingénu arrived, holding his Jansenist's hand. The scene now became still more unusual and moving. It began with loving embraces from his uncle and aunt. The abbé de Saint-Yves almost went down on his knees before the Ingénu, who was no longer so naïve. The two lovers spoke to each other through looks that expressed all the feelings filling their hearts. Joy and gratitude shone on his face. Uneasiness showed in her tender, slightly bewildered eyes. Everyone was surprised that she mixed sorrow with so much joy.

In a few moments, old Gordon became dear to the whole family. He had suffered with the young prisoner, and that was a great claim on their affection. He owed his release to the two lovers. That alone reconciled him to love. The harshness of his former beliefs was leaving his heart. Like the Huron, he had become a new man. Before supper, everyone told their adventures. The two abbés and the aunt listened like children hearing ghost stories, and like people who all cared about so many disasters. "Sadly," said Gordon, "there may be more than five hundred virtuous people at this moment in the same chains Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves has broken. Their sufferings are unknown. There are plenty of hands to strike the mass of unhappy people, but rarely one to help." This thought, so true, deepened his compassion and gratitude. Everything added to the beautiful Saint-Yves's triumph. Everyone admired her noble, resolute spirit. Their admiration was mixed with the respect people can't help feeling for someone they believe has influence at court. But the abbé de Saint-Yves sometimes asked, "How did my sister manage to gain this influence so quickly?"

They were about to sit down to a very early supper when the good friend from Versailles arrived, knowing nothing of what had happened. She was in a carriage drawn by six horses, and it was easy to see who owned it. She came in with the imposing air of someone from court who had important business, barely greeted the company, and pulled the beautiful Saint-Yves aside. "Why keep us waiting so long? Come with me. Here are your diamonds, which you forgot." She couldn't say this quietly enough to keep the Ingénu from hearing. He saw the diamonds. Her brother was dumbfounded. The uncle and aunt felt only the surprise of simple people who had never seen such splendor. The young man, whose mind had developed through a year of reflection, couldn't help thinking about it and looked troubled for a moment. His lover noticed. A deathly paleness spread over her beautiful face. She shuddered and could barely stand. "Oh, madam," she told that disastrous friend, "you've ruined me! You're killing me!" These words pierced the Ingénu's heart. But he had already learned self-control. He didn't comment on them, for fear of upsetting his beloved in front of her brother, but he turned as pale as she did.

Saint-Yves, distraught at the change she saw in her lover's face, pulled the woman out of the room into a small passage and threw the diamonds on the ground in front of her. "Oh, they weren't what tempted me. You know that. But the man who gave them will never see me again." Her friend was picking them up, and Saint-Yves added, "Let him take them back or give them to you. Go away. Don't make me feel ashamed of myself anymore." At last the messenger went back, unable to understand the remorse she had witnessed.

The beautiful Saint-Yves, weighed down and feeling a violent disturbance in her body that made it hard to breathe, had to go to bed. But she didn't want to alarm anyone, so she said nothing about her suffering. Saying only that she was tired, she asked permission to rest. First, though, she reassured everyone with comforting, affectionate words and gave her lover looks that set his soul on fire.

Without her to bring life to it, supper was sad at first. But it was the kind of moving sadness that produces absorbing, useful conversations, far better than the frivolous gaiety people seek, which is usually nothing but tiresome noise.

In a few words Gordon told the history of Jansenism and Molinism, the persecutions one party inflicted on the other, and the stubbornness of both. The Ingénu criticized them and pitied people who weren't content with all the conflicts their interests stirred up, but made new troubles for themselves over imaginary interests and incomprehensible absurdities. Gordon told the story, and the other judged it. Their fellow diners listened with feeling and gained new understanding. They spoke of how long our troubles last and how short life is. They observed that every profession has its own vice and danger, and that everyone, from a prince to the lowest beggar, seems to accuse nature. How can there be so many people willing, for so little money, to persecute, hunt down, and execute other people? With what inhuman indifference a man in office signs an order to destroy a family, and with what still more barbarous joy hired men carry it out!

"In my youth," said good old Gordon, "I knew a relative of Marshal de Marillac. He was being hunted in his province for supporting that famous, unfortunate man, and was hiding in Paris under a false name. He was seventy-two years old. His wife, who was with him, was about the same age. They had had a dissolute son who ran away from home at fourteen. He became a soldier, then a deserter, and went through every stage of debauchery and poverty. At last he adopted the name of an estate and joined Cardinal de Richelieu's guards—for that priest, like Mazarin, had guards. He had obtained an exempt officer's baton in this band of henchmen. This adventurer was ordered to arrest the old man and his wife. He carried it out with all the brutality of a man eager to please his master. As he led them away, he heard these two victims lament the long series of misfortunes they had suffered since birth. The father and mother counted their son's waywardness and loss among their greatest sorrows. He recognized them, but took them to prison just the same, assuring them that serving His Eminence must come before everything else. His Eminence rewarded his zeal.

"I saw a spy working for Father de La Chaise betray his own brother in hopes of getting a small church benefice, which he never received. And I saw him die, not of remorse, but of grief at having been cheated by the Jesuit.

"My work as a confessor, which I did for a long time, let me see inside families. I hardly saw one that wasn't sunk in misery, while outwardly, behind a mask of happiness, they seemed to be swimming in joy. And I always noticed that our greatest sorrows came from our uncontrolled greed."

"For my part," said the Ingénu, "I think a noble, grateful, loving soul can live happily. I fully expect to enjoy complete happiness with the beautiful, generous Saint-Yves. For I hope," he added, turning to her brother with a friendly smile, "that you won't refuse me as you did last year, and I'll go about it more properly." The abbé poured out apologies for the past and promises of lasting affection.

Uncle Kerkabon said it would be the happiest day of his life. Overjoyed and crying with happiness, the good aunt exclaimed, "I told you that you'd never be a subdeacon! This sacrament is better than the other one. I wish to God I'd been honored with it! But I'll be a mother to you." Then they all tried to outdo each other in praising the loving Saint-Yves.

Her lover's heart was too full of what she had done for him, and he loved her too much, for the affair of the diamonds to dominate his feelings. But those words he had heard only too clearly, *you're killing me*, still frightened him in secret and spoiled all his joy, while the praise of his beautiful beloved made his love grow still stronger. At last everyone was thinking only of her. They spoke only of the happiness the two lovers deserved. They made plans to live together in Paris, plans for wealth and advancement. They gave themselves over to all the hopes that the smallest glimmer of happiness so easily brings to life. But deep in his heart the Ingénu felt something that resisted this illusion. He reread the promises signed by Saint-Pouange and the official grants signed by Louvois. They described these two men to him as they were, or as people believed them to be. Everyone spoke about the ministers and the government with that freedom of the dinner table which, in France, is considered the most precious freedom anyone can enjoy on earth.

"If I were king of France," said the Ingénu, "this is the kind of war minister I'd choose. I'd want a man of the highest birth, because he gives orders to the nobility. I'd require him to have been an officer himself, to have passed through every rank, to be at least a lieutenant general in the army and worthy of becoming a marshal of France. Doesn't he need to have served himself to understand the details of military service better? And won't officers obey a soldier who has shown his courage, just as they have, a hundred times more gladly than an office worker who, however clever he is, can at best only guess at the operations of a campaign? I wouldn't mind my minister being generous, even if it sometimes made things a little difficult for the keeper of my royal treasury. I'd like him to work with ease and even be known for the cheerful spirit of a man who is on top of his business. That pleases the nation so much and makes every duty less painful." He wanted the minister to have this character because he had always noticed that such good humor is incompatible with cruelty.

Monsieur de Louvois might not have been satisfied with the Ingénu's wishes. His merits were of another kind.

But while they were at the table, the unhappy girl's illness was taking a dangerous turn. Her blood had become inflamed, and a consuming fever had set in. She suffered without complaining, careful not to disturb the diners' happiness.

Her brother, knowing she wasn't asleep, went to her bedside. He was startled by her condition. Everyone hurried in, her lover following her brother. He was certainly the most alarmed and the most deeply moved of them all. But he had learned to add discretion to all the fine gifts nature had showered on him, and a quick sense of proper behavior was beginning to guide him.

They immediately sent for a neighborhood doctor. He was one of those who rush through their visits, confusing the illness they have just seen with the one they are looking at now. They follow blind routine in a science whose uncertainties and dangers can't be removed even by the most mature, sound, thoughtful judgment. He made the illness twice as bad by hastily prescribing a remedy then in fashion. Fashion, even in medicine! This craze was all too common in Paris.

The sorrowful Saint-Yves did even more than her doctor to make her illness dangerous. Her mind was killing her body. The crowd of thoughts tormenting her put a poison into her veins more dangerous than the poison of the most burning fever.

### Chapter XX

The beautiful Saint-Yves dies, and what follows.

They called another doctor. Instead of helping nature and letting it do its work in a young woman whose every organ was struggling to restore life, he thought only of opposing his colleague. Within two days the illness became fatal. The brain, believed to be the seat of understanding, was attacked as violently as the heart, said to be the seat of the passions.

"What incomprehensible mechanism has made our organs subject to feeling and thought? How does a single painful idea disturb the flow of blood? And how does the blood, in turn, pass its disorders on to the human mind? What is this unknown fluid, whose existence is certain, which moves faster and more actively than light, rushing through all the channels of life in less than the blink of an eye? It produces sensations, memory, sadness or joy, reason or confusion. It brings back in horror what we wish we could forget and makes a thinking animal either an object of admiration or a subject for pity and tears."

This was what good Gordon said. This very natural reflection, which people rarely make, took nothing away from his tenderness. He wasn't one of those wretched philosophers who try to feel nothing. He was moved by this young woman's fate like a father watching his beloved child slowly die. The abbé de Saint-Yves was in despair. The prior and his sister shed streams of tears. But who could describe her lover's condition? No language has words equal to such extreme pain. Languages are too imperfect.

The aunt, almost lifeless herself, held the dying woman's head in her weak arms. Her brother knelt at the foot of the bed. Her lover clasped her hand, bathing it in tears and breaking into sobs. He called her his benefactor, his hope, his life, half of himself, his beloved, his wife. At the word "wife," she sighed and looked at him with indescribable tenderness, then suddenly gave a cry of horror. Then, in one of those intervals when crushing exhaustion, dulled senses, and pain briefly held back leave the mind free and strong, she cried, "Me, your wife! Oh, dear lover, that name, that happiness, that reward were no longer meant for me. I'm dying, and I deserve it. Oh, god of my heart! You whom I sacrificed to demons from hell! It's over. I'm being punished. Live happily." No one could understand these tender, terrible words, but they filled every heart with fear and compassion. She found the courage to explain. Every word made everyone present shudder with astonishment, sorrow, and pity. They all joined in hating the powerful man who had corrected a horrible injustice only by committing a crime, and had forced the most admirable innocence to become his accomplice.

"What? You, guilty?" her lover told her. "No, you aren't. Crime can exist only in the heart. Yours belongs to virtue and to me."

He supported this thought with words that seemed to bring the beautiful Saint-Yves back to life. She felt comforted and was surprised that she was still loved. Old Gordon would have condemned her when he was only a Jansenist. But now that he had become wise, he respected her and wept.

Amid so many tears and fears, while the danger facing this beloved girl filled every heart and everyone was in distress, a messenger from court was announced. A messenger! From whom? And why? He came on behalf of the king's confessor, for the prior of Kerkabon. It wasn't Father de La Chaise who had written, but Brother Vadbled, his personal servant. He was a very important man at the time: he informed archbishops of the reverend father's wishes, gave audiences, promised church benefices, and sometimes had royal warrants for imprisonment issued. He wrote to the prior "that His Reverence had been informed of his nephew's adventures; that his imprisonment was only a mistake; that these little misfortunes happened frequently and shouldn't be taken seriously; that, in short, the prior should come and present his nephew the next day; that he should bring good old Gordon with him; and that he, Brother Vadbled, would introduce them to His Reverence and to Monsieur de Louvois, who would say a word to them in his anteroom."

He added that the king had been told the Ingénu's story and how he had fought the English. The king would surely be gracious enough to notice him when passing through the gallery, and might even nod to him. The letter ended by holding out the pleasing hope that all the ladies of the court would be eager to invite his nephew to attend them while they dressed. Several would say, "Good morning, Monsieur Ingénu," and he would certainly be talked about at the king's supper. The letter was signed, "Your affectionate Vadbled, Jesuit brother."

When the prior read the letter aloud, his furious nephew controlled his anger for a moment and said nothing to the messenger. Instead, he turned to the companion of his sufferings and asked what he thought of this way of writing. Gordon answered, "So this is how they treat people like monkeys! They beat them and make them dance." The Ingénu's original character returned, as it always does when the soul is deeply stirred. He tore the letter into pieces and threw them in the messenger's face. "There's my answer." His terrified uncle thought he saw a thunderbolt and twenty royal warrants for imprisonment falling on him. He hurried off to write and excuse as best he could what he took for a young man's temper, but which was really the outburst of a great soul.

But more painful concerns took hold of every heart. The beautiful, unfortunate Saint-Yves could already feel her end approaching. She was calm, but with the dreadful calm of a body that has collapsed and no longer has the strength to fight. "Oh, my dear lover!" she said in a fading voice. "Death is punishing me for my weakness. But I die with the comfort of knowing you're free.

"I adored you while betraying you, and I adore you as I say goodbye forever."

She didn't put on an empty show of firmness. She couldn't understand the miserable glory of making a few neighbors say, "She died bravely." Who, at twenty, can lose her lover, her life, and what is called *honor*, without regret and anguish? She felt all the horror of her condition and made it felt through those words and those dying looks that speak so powerfully. In short, she cried like the others whenever she had the strength to cry.

Let others praise the showy deaths of people who meet destruction without feeling. That's the fate of all animals. We die with indifference, as they do, only when age or illness dulls our organs and makes us like them. Anyone who suffers a great loss feels great regret. If he suppresses it, that's because he carries his vanity even into the arms of death.

When the fatal moment came, everyone there broke into tears and cries. The Ingénu lost consciousness. Strong souls, when they are tender, feel things much more violently than others. Good Gordon knew him well enough to fear that he would kill himself when he came to. They removed all the weapons. The unhappy young man noticed. Without tears, groans, or any sign of agitation, he said to his relatives and Gordon, "Do you think there's anyone on earth with the right and power to stop me from ending my life?" Gordon was careful not to parade those tiresome commonplaces used to try to prove that people aren't allowed to use their freedom to stop existing when they are horribly unhappy; that they mustn't leave their house when they can no longer live in it; that a person is on earth like a soldier at his post—as though it mattered to the Being of beings whether a collection of a few pieces of matter was in one place or another. These are powerless arguments which firm, thoughtful despair refuses to hear, and which Cato answered only with a stab of his dagger.

The Ingénu's bleak, terrible silence, his dark eyes, his trembling lips, and his shuddering body filled everyone who looked at him with a mixture of pity and fear. It froze every power of the mind, made speech impossible, and could show itself only in broken words. The landlady and her family had hurried in. They trembled at his despair, kept him in sight, and watched his every movement. The cold body of the beautiful Saint-Yves had already been taken to a downstairs room, away from the eyes of her lover, who seemed to be searching for her still, though he could no longer really see anything.

In the middle of this scene of death, while the body lay on display at the door of the house, while two priests beside a basin of holy water recited prayers distractedly, while some passersby idly sprinkled a few drops of holy water on the coffin and others went on their way without caring, while the relatives wept and a lover was about to take his own life, Saint-Pouange arrived with the friend from Versailles.

His passing desire, satisfied only once, had become love. The refusal of his favors had stung him. Father de La Chaise would never have thought of coming to this house. But Saint-Pouange saw the beautiful Saint-Yves's image before him every day. He burned to satisfy a passion that had driven the sharp point of desire into his heart after just one encounter. He didn't hesitate to come in person to seek the woman he might not have wanted to see even three times if she had come willingly.

He got out of his carriage. The first thing he saw was a coffin. He turned his eyes away with the simple disgust of a man raised among pleasures, who thinks he should be spared any sight that might bring him back to thinking about human misery. He was about to go upstairs. Out of curiosity, the woman from Versailles asked who was to be buried. Someone said the name of Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves. At that name she went pale and gave a dreadful cry. Saint-Pouange turned around. Astonishment and grief filled his heart. Good Gordon was there, his eyes full of tears. He broke off his sorrowful prayers to tell the courtier about the whole horrible disaster. He spoke with the authority that sorrow and virtue give. Saint-Pouange hadn't been born wicked. The rush of business and amusement had swept away his soul before it had come to know itself. He wasn't yet approaching old age, which usually hardens ministers' hearts. He listened to Gordon with his eyes lowered, wiping away a few tears that he was surprised to shed. He came to know repentance.

"I absolutely must see this extraordinary man you've told me about," he said. "He moves me almost as much as the innocent victim whose death I caused." Gordon followed him to the room where the prior, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, the abbé de Saint-Yves, and a few neighbors were bringing the young man around after he had fainted again.

"I've caused your misery," the deputy minister told him. "I'll spend my life making it right." The Ingénu's first thought was to kill him and then kill himself. Nothing could have been more fitting. But he had no weapons and was closely watched. Saint-Pouange wasn't put off by the refusals, with all the reproach, contempt, and horror he deserved and received in abundance. Time softens everything. Monsieur de Louvois eventually managed to make an excellent officer of the Ingénu. Under another name he appeared in Paris and in the armies, winning the approval of all decent people, and was both a fearless soldier and a fearless philosopher.

He never spoke of this experience without a groan, yet speaking of it was his comfort. He cherished the memory of the loving Saint-Yves to the last moment of his life. The abbé de Saint-Yves and the prior each received a good church benefice. Good Mademoiselle de Kerkabon preferred seeing her nephew with military honors to seeing him a subdeacon. The devout woman from Versailles kept the diamond earrings and received another handsome gift. Father Tout-à-tous received boxes of chocolate, coffee, rock candy, and candied lemons, along with the *Meditations of the Reverend Father Croiset* and *The Flower of the Saints*, bound in morocco leather. Good Gordon lived with the Ingénu in the closest friendship until his death. He too received a benefice and forgot efficacious grace and concomitant concurrence forever. He took as his motto, *Misfortune is good for something*. How many decent people in the world have been able to say, *Misfortune is good for nothing!*