Voltaire · Complete work
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXII of 30. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Ce qui arriva en France à Candide et à Martin.
Candide ne s’arrêta dans Bordeaux qu’autant de temps qu’il en fallait pour vendre quelques cailloux du Dorado, et pour s’accommoder d’une bonne chaise à deux places; car il ne pouvait plus se passer de son philosophe Martin; il fut seulement très fâché de se séparer de son mouton, qu’il laissa à l’académie des sciences de Bordeaux, laquelle proposa pour le sujet du prix de cette année de trouver pourquoi la laine de ce mouton était rouge; et le prix fut adjugé à un savant du Nord, qui démontra par A, plus B, moins C divisé par Z, que le mouton devait être rouge, et mourir de la clavelée.
Cependant tous les voyageurs que Candide rencontra dans les cabarets de la route lui disaient: Nous allons à Paris. Cet empressement général lui donna enfin l’envie de voir cette capitale; ce n’était pas beaucoup se détourner du chemin de Venise.
Il entra par le faubourg Saint-Marceau, et crut être dans le plus vilain village de la Vestphalie.
A peine Candide fut-il dans son auberge, qu’il fut attaqué d’une maladie légère, causée par ses fatigues. Comme il avait au doigt un diamant énorme, et qu’on avait aperçu dans son équipage une cassette prodigieusement pesante, il eut aussitôt auprès de lui deux médecins qu’il n’avait pas mandés, quelques amis intimes qui ne le quittèrent pas, et deux dévotes qui fesaient chauffer ses bouillons. Martin disait: Je me souviens d’avoir été malade aussi à Paris dans mon premier voyage; j’étais fort pauvre: aussi n’eus-je ni amis, ni dévotes, ni médecins, et je guéris.
Cependant, à force de médecines et de saignées, la maladie de Candide devint sérieuse. Un habitué du quartier vint avec douceur lui demander un billet payable au porteur pour l’autre monde: Candide n’en voulut rien faire; les dévotes l’assurèrent que c’était une nouvelle mode: Candide répondit qu’il n’était point homme à la mode. Martin voulut jeter l’habitué par les fenêtres. Le clerc jura qu’on n’enterrerait point Candide. Martin jura qu’il enterrerait le clerc, s’il continuait à les importuner. La querelle s’échauffa: Martin le prit par les épaules, et le chassa rudement; ce qui causa un grand scandale, dont on fit un procès-verbal.
Candide guérit; et pendant sa convalescence il eut très bonne compagnie à souper chez lui. On jouait gros jeu. Candide était tout étonné que jamais les as ne lui vinssent; et Martin ne s’en étonnait pas.
Parmi ceux qui lui fesaient les honneurs de la ville, il y avait un petit abbé périgourdin, l’un de ces gens empressés, toujours alertes, toujours serviables, effrontés, caressants, accommodants, qui guettent les étrangers à leur passage, leur content l’histoire scandaleuse de la ville, et leur offrent des plaisirs à tout prix. Celui-ci mena d’abord Candide et Martin à la comédie. On y jouait une tragédie nouvelle. Candide se trouva placé auprès de quelques beaux esprits. Cela ne l’empêcha pas de pleurer à des scènes jouées parfaitement. Un des raisonneurs qui étaient à ses côtés lui dit dans un entr’acte: Vous avez grand tort de pleurer, cette actrice est fort mauvaise; l’acteur qui joue avec elle est plus mauvais acteur encore; la pièce est encore plus mauvaise que les acteurs; l’auteur ne sait pas un mot d’arabe, et cependant la scène est en Arabie; et, de plus, c’est un homme qui ne croit pas aux idées innées; je vous apporterai demain vingt brochures contre lui. Monsieur, combien avez-vous de pièces de théâtre en France? dit Candide à l’abbé; lequel répondit: Cinq ou six mille. C’est beaucoup, dit Candide: combien y en a-t-il de bonnes? Quinze ou seize, répliqua l’autre. C’est beaucoup, dit Martin.
Que ton exactitude à dépeindre les moeurs S’étende jusqu’aux noms de tes moindres acteurs, Et qu’en les prononçant ils nous fassent connaître Les pays et les temps où tu les fais renaître. Je vois avec dépit, pour ne produire rien, Chez le Thébain Oedipe, Hidaspe l’Indien.
Voltaire profita de la critique, et mit Araspe au lieu de Hidaspe. C’est peut-être à ces vers de La Grange Chancel que Voltaire fait ici allusion. B.
«… contre lui. Monsieur, lui dit l’abbé périgourdin, avez-vous remarqué cette jeune personne qui a un visage si piquant et une taille si fine? Il ne vous en coûtera que dix mille francs par mois, et pour cinquante mille écus de diamants. Je n’ai qu’un jour ou deux à lui donner, répondit Candide, parceque j’ai un rendez-vous à Venise, qui presse.
Le soir, après souper, l’insinuant Périgourdin redoubla de politesses et d’attentions. Vous avez donc, monsieur, lui dit-il, un rendez-vous à Venise, etc.» (Voyez page 306.)
Le texte actuel existe dès 1761. B.
Candide fut très content d’une actrice qui fesait la reine Élizabeth, dans une assez plate tragédie, que l’on joue quelquefois. Cette actrice, dit-il à Martin, me plaît beaucoup; elle a un faux air de mademoiselle Cunégonde; je serais bien aise de la saluer. L’abbé périgourdin s’offrit à l’introduire chez elle. Candide, élevé en Allemagne, demanda quelle était l’étiquette, et comment on traitait en France les reines d’Angleterre. Il faut distinguer, dit l’abbé: en province, on les mène au cabaret; à Paris, on les respecte quand elles sont belles, et on les jette à la voirie quand elles sont mortes. Des reines à la voirie! dit Candide. Oui vraiment, dit Martin; monsieur l’abbé a raison; j’étais à Paris quand mademoiselle Monime passa, comme on dit, de cette vie à l’autre; on lui refusa, ce que ces gens-ci appellent les honneurs de la sépulture, c’est-à-dire de pourrir avec tous les gueux du quartier dans un vilain cimetière; elle fut enterrée toute seule de sa bande au coin de la rue de Bourgogne; ce qui dut lui faire une peine extrême, car elle pensait très noblement. Cela est bien impoli, dit Candide. Que voulez-vous? dit Martin; ces gens-ci sont ainsi faits. Imaginez toutes les contradictions, toutes les incompatibilités possibles, vous les verrez dans le gouvernement, dans les tribunaux, dans les églises, dans les spectacles de cette drôle de nation. Est-il vrai qu’on rit toujours à Paris? dit Candide. Oui, dit l’abbé, mais c’est en enrageant; car on s’y plaint de tout avec de grands éclats de rire; même on y fait en riant les actions les plus détestables.
Quel est, dit Candide, ce gros cochon qui me disait tant de mal de la pièce où j’ai tant pleuré, et des acteurs qui m’ont fait tant de plaisir? C’est un mal-vivant, répondit l’abbé, qui gagne sa vie à dire du mal de toutes les pièces et de tous les livres; il hait quiconque réussit, comme les eunuques haïssent les jouissants; c’est un de ces serpents de la littérature qui se nourrissent de fange et de venin; c’est un folliculaire. Qu’appelez-vous folliculaire? dit Candide. C’est, dit l’abbé, un feseur de feuilles, un Fréron.
C’est ainsi que Candide, Martin, et le Périgourdin, raisonnaient sur l’escalier, en voyant défiler le monde au sortir de la pièce. Quoique je sois très empressé de revoir mademoiselle Cunégonde, dit Candide, je voudrais pourtant souper avec mademoiselle Clairon, car elle m’a paru admirable.
L’abbé n’était pas homme à approcher de mademoiselle Clairon, qui ne voyait que bonne compagnie. Elle est engagée pour ce soir, dit-il; mais j’aurai l’honneur de vous mener chez une dame de qualité, et là vous connaîtrez Paris comme si vous y aviez été quatre ans.
Candide, qui était naturellement curieux, se laissa mener chez la dame, au fond du faubourg Saint-Honoré; on y était occupé d’un pharaon; douze tristes pontes tenaient chacun en main un petit livre de cartes, registre cornu de leurs infortunes. Un profond silence régnait, la pâleur était sur le front des pontes, l’inquiétude sur celui du banquier; et la dame du logis, assise auprès de ce banquier impitoyable, remarquait avec des yeux de lynx tous les parolis, tous les sept-et-le-va de campagne, dont chaque joueur cornait ses cartes; elle les fesait décorner avec une attention sévère, mais polie, et ne se fâchait point, de peur de perdre ses pratiques. La dame se fesait appeler la marquise de Parolignac. Sa fille, âgée de quinze ans, était au nombre des pontes, et avertissait d’un clin d’oeil des friponneries de ces pauvres gens qui tâchaient de réparer les cruautés du sort. L’abbé périgourdin, Candide, et Martin, entrèrent; personne ne se leva, ni les salua, ni les regarda; tous étaient profondément occupés de leurs cartes. Madame la baronne de Thunder-ten-tronckh était plus civile, dit Candide.
Cependant l’abbé s’approcha de l’oreille de la marquise, qui se leva à moitié, honora Candide d’un sourire gracieux, et Martin d’un air de tête tout-à-fait noble; elle fit donner un siège et un jeu de cartes à Candide, qui perdit cinquante mille francs en deux tailles: après quoi on soupa très gaiement; et tout le monde était étonné que Candide ne fût pas ému de sa perte; les laquais disaient entre eux, dans leur langage de laquais: Il faut que ce soit quelque milord anglais. Le souper fut comme la plupart des soupers de Paris, d’abord du silence, ensuite un bruit de paroles qu’on ne distingue point, puis des plaisanteries dont la plupart sont insipides, de fausses nouvelles, de mauvais raisonnements, un peu de politique, et beaucoup de médisance; on parla même de livres nouveaux. Avez-vous vu, dit l’abbé périgourdin, le roman du sieur Gauchat, docteur en théologie? Oui, répondit un des convives, mais je n’ai pu l’achever. Nous avons une foule d’écrits impertinents; mais tous ensemble n’approchent pas de l’impertinence de Gauchat, docteur en théologie; je suis si rassasié de cette immensité de détestables livres qui nous inondent, que je me suis mis à ponter au pharaon. Et les Mélanges de l’archidiacre Trublet, qu’en dites-vous? dit l’abbé. Ah! dit madame de Parolignac, l’ennuyeux mortel! comme il vous dit curieusement ce que tout le monde sait! comme il discute pesamment ce qui ne vaut pas la peine d’être remarqué légèrement! comme il s’approprie, sans esprit, l’esprit des autres! comme il gâte ce qu’il pille! comme il me dégoûte! mais il ne me dégoûtera plus; c’est assez d’avoir lu quelques pages de l’archidiacre.
Il y avait à table un homme savant et de goût qui appuya ce que disait la marquise. On parla ensuite de tragédies; la dame demanda pourquoi il y avait des tragédies qu’on jouait quelquefois, et qu’on ne pouvait lire. L’homme de goût expliqua très bien comment une pièce pouvait avoir quelque intérêt, et n’avoir presque aucun mérite; il prouva en peu de mots que ce n’était pas assez d’amener une ou deux de ces situations qu’on trouve dans tous les romans, et qui séduisent toujours les spectateurs; mais qu’il faut être neuf sans être bizarre, souvent sublime et toujours naturel, connaître le coeur humain et le faire parler; être grand poëte, sans que jamais aucun personnage de la pièce paraisse poëte; savoir parfaitement sa langue, la parler avec pureté, avec une harmonie continue, sans que jamais la rime coûte rien au sens. Quiconque, ajouta-t-il, n’observe pas toutes ces règles, peut faire une ou deux tragédies applaudies au théâtre, mais il ne sera jamais compté au rang des bons écrivains; il y a très peu de bonnes tragédies: les unes sont des idylles en dialogues bien écrits et bien rimés; les autres, des raisonnements politiques qui endorment, ou des amplifications qui rebutent; les autres, des rêves d’énergumène, en style barbare, des propos interrompus, de longues apostrophes aux dieux, parcequ’on ne sait point parler aux hommes, des maximes fausses, des lieux communs ampoulés.
Candide écouta ce propos avec attention, et conçut une grande idée du discoureur; et, comme la marquise avait eu soin de le placer à côté d’elle, il s’approcha de son oreille, et prit la liberté de lui demander qui était cet homme qui parlait si bien. C’est un savant, dit la dame, qui ne ponte point, et que l’abbé m’amène quelquefois à souper; il se connaît parfaitement en tragédies et en livres, et il a fait une tragédie sifflée, et un livre dont on n’a jamais vu hors de la boutique de son libraire qu’un exemplaire qu’il m’a dédié. Le grand homme! dit Candide, c’est un autre Pangloss.
Alors se tournant vers lui, il lui dit: Monsieur, vous pensez, sans doute, que tout est au mieux dans le monde physique et dans le moral, et que rien ne pouvait être autrement? Moi, monsieur, lui répondit le savant, je ne pense rien de tout cela; je trouve que tout va de travers chez nous; que personne ne sait ni quel est son rang, ni quelle est sa charge, ni ce qu’il fait, ni ce qu’il doit faire, et qu’excepté le souper, qui est assez gai, et où il paraît assez d’union, tout le reste du temps se passe en querelles impertinentes; jansénistes contre molinistes, gens du parlement contre gens d’église, gens de lettres contre gens de lettres, courtisans contre courtisans, financiers contre le peuple, femmes contre maris, parents contre parents; c’est une guerre éternelle.
Candide lui répliqua: J’ai vu pis; mais un sage, qui depuis a eu le malheur d’être pendu, m’apprit que tout cela est à merveille; ce sont des ombres à un beau tableau. Votre pendu se moquait du monde, dit Martin; vos ombres sont des taches horribles. Ce sont les hommes qui font les taches, dit Candide, et ils ne peuvent pas s’en dispenser. Ce n’est donc pas leur faute, dit Martin. La plupart des pontes, qui n’entendaient rien à ce langage, buvaient; et Martin raisonna avec le savant, et Candide raconta une partie de ses aventures à la dame du logis.
Après souper, la marquise mena Candide dans son cabinet, et le fit asseoir sur un canapé. Eh bien! lui dit-elle, vous aimez donc toujours éperdument mademoiselle Cunégonde de Thunder-ten-tronckh? Oui, madame, répondit Candide. La marquise lui répliqua avec un souris tendre: Vous me répondez comme un jeune homme de Vestphalie; un Français m’aurait dit: Il est vrai que j’ai aimé mademoiselle Cunégonde; mais en vous voyant, madame, je crains de ne la plus aimer. Hélas! madame, dit Candide, je répondrai comme vous voudrez. Votre passion pour elle, dit la marquise, a commencé en ramassant son mouchoir; je veux que vous ramassiez ma jarretière. De tout mon coeur, dit Candide; et il la ramassa. Mais je veux que vous me la remettiez, dit la dame; et Candide la lui remit. Voyez-vous, dit la dame, vous êtes étranger; je fais quelquefois languir mes amants de Paris quinze jours, mais je me rends à vous dès la première nuit, parcequ’il faut faire les honneurs de son pays à un jeune homme de Vestphalie. La belle ayant aperçu deux énormes diamants aux deux mains de son jeune étranger, les loua de si bonne foi, que des doigts de Candide ils passèrent aux doigts de la marquise.
Candide, en s’en retournant avec son abbé périgourdin, sentit quelques remords d’avoir fait une infidélité à mademoiselle Cunégonde. M. l’abbé entra dans sa peine; il n’avait qu’une légère part aux cinquante mille livres perdues au jeu par Candide, et à la valeur des deux brillants moitié donnés, moitié extorqués. Son dessein était de profiter, autant qu’il le pourrait, des avantages que la connaissance de Candide pouvait lui procurer. Il lui parla beaucoup de Cunégonde; et Candide lui dit qu’il demanderait bien pardon à cette belle de son infidélité, quand il la verrait à Venise.
Le Périgourdin redoublait de politesses et d’attentions, et prenait un intérêt tendre à tout ce que Candide disait, à tout ce qu’il fesait, à tout ce qu’il voulait faire.
Vous avez donc, monsieur, lui dit-il, un rendez-vous à Venise? Oui, monsieur l’abbé, dit Candide; il faut absolument que j’aille trouver mademoiselle Cunégonde. Alors, engagé par le plaisir de parler de ce qu’il aimait, il conta, selon son usage, une partie de ses aventures avec cette illustre Vestphalienne.
Je crois, dit l’abbé, que mademoiselle Cunégonde a bien de l’esprit, et qu’elle écrit des lettres charmantes. Je n’en ai jamais reçu, dit Candide; car, figurez-vous qu’ayant été chassé du château pour l’amour d’elle, je ne pus lui écrire; que bientôt après j’appris qu’elle était morte, qu’ensuite je la retrouvai, et que je la perdis, et que je lui ai envoyé à deux mille cinq cents lieues d’ici un exprès dont j’attends la réponse.
L’abbé écoutait attentivement, et paraissait un peu rêveur. Il prit bientôt congé des deux étrangers, après les avoir tendrement embrassés. Le lendemain Candide reçut à son réveil une lettre conçue en ces termes:
«Monsieur mon très cher amant, il y a huit jours que je suis malade en cette ville; j’apprends que vous y êtes. Je volerais dans vos bras si je pouvais remuer. J’ai su votre passage à Bordeaux; j’y ai laissé le fidèle Cacambo et la vieille, qui doivent bientôt me suivre. Le gouverneur de Buénos-Ayres a tout pris, mais il me reste votre coeur. Venez; votre présence me rendra la vie ou me fera mourir de plaisir.»
Cette lettre charmante, cette lettre inespérée, transporta Candide d’une joie inexprimable; et la maladie de sa chère Cunégonde l’accabla de douleur. Partagé entre ces deux sentiments, il prend son or et ses diamants, et se fait conduire avec Martin à l’hôtel où mademoiselle Cunégonde demeurait. Il entre en tremblant d’émotion, son coeur palpite, sa voix sanglote; il veut ouvrir les rideaux du lit; il veut faire apporter de la lumière. Gardez-vous-en bien, lui dit la suivante; la lumière la tue; et soudain elle referme le rideau. Ma chère Cunégonde, dit Candide en pleurant, comment vous portez-vous? si vous ne pouvez me voir, parlez-moi du moins. Elle ne peut parler, dit la suivante, la dame alors tire du lit une main potelée que Candide arrose long-temps de ses larmes, et qu’il remplit ensuite de diamants, en laissant un sac plein d’or sur le fauteuil.
Au milieu de ses transports arrive un exempt suivi de l’abbé périgourdin et d’une escouade. Voilà donc, dit-il, ces deux étrangers suspects? Il les fait incontinent saisir, et ordonne à ses braves de les traîner en prison. Ce n’est pas ainsi qu’on traite les voyageurs dans Eldorado, dit Candide. Je suis plus manichéen que jamais, dit Martin. Mais, monsieur, où nous menez-vous? dit Candide. Dans un cul de basse-fosse, dit l’exempt.
Martin, ayant repris son sang froid, jugea que la dame qui se prétendait Cunégonde était une friponne, monsieur l’abbé périgourdin un fripon, qui avait abusé au plus vite de l’innocence de Candide, et l’exempt un autre fripon dont on pouvait aisément se débarrasser.
Plutôt que de s’exposer aux procédures de la justice, Candide, éclairé par son conseil, et d’ailleurs toujours impatient de revoir la véritable Cunégonde, propose à l’exempt trois petits diamants d’environ trois mille pistoles chacun. Ah! monsieur, lui dit l’homme au bâton d’ivoire, eussiez-vous commis tous les crimes imaginables, vous êtes le plus honnête homme du monde; trois diamants! chacun de trois mille pistoles! Monsieur! je me ferais tuer pour vous, au lieu de vous mener dans un cachot. On arrête tous les étrangers, mais laissez-moi faire; j’ai un frère à Dieppe en Normandie; je vais vous y mener; et si vous avez quelque diamant à lui donner, il aura soin de vous comme moi-même.
Et pourquoi arrête-t-on tous les étrangers? dit Candide. L’abbé périgourdin prit alors la parole, et dit: C’est parcequ’un gueux du pays d’Atrébatie a entendu dire des sottises; cela seul lui a fait commettre un parricide, non pas tel que celui de 1610 au mois de mai, mais tel que celui de 1594 au mois de décembre, et tel que plusieurs autres commis dans d’autres années et dans d’autres mois par d’autres gueux qui avaient entendu dire des sottises.
L’exempt alors expliqua de quoi il s’agissait. Ah! les monstres! s’écria Candide; quoi! de telles horreurs chez un peuple qui danse et qui chante! Ne pourrai-je sortir au plus vite de ce pays où des singes agacent des tigres? J’ai vu des ours dans mon pays; je n’ai vu des hommes que dans le Dorado. Au nom de Dieu, monsieur l’exempt, menez-moi à Venise, où je dois attendre mademoiselle Cunégonde. Je ne peux vous mener qu’en Basse-Normandie, dit le barigel. Aussitôt il lui fait ôter ses fers, dit qu’il s’est mépris, renvoie ses gens, emmène à Dieppe Candide et Martin, et les laisse entre les mains de son frère. Il y avait un petit vaisseau hollandais à la rade. Le Normand, à l’aide de trois autres diamants, devenu le plus serviable des hommes, embarque Candide et ses gens dans le vaisseau qui allait faire voile pour Portsmouth en Angleterre. Ce n’était pas le chemin de Venise; mais Candide croyait être délivré de l’enfer; et il comptait bien reprendre la route de Venise à la première occasion.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the French text of all thirty chapters (Beuchot edition, 1829) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity. The editor’s notes are omitted.
What Happened to Candide and Martin in France.
Candide stopped in Bordeaux only long enough to sell a few stones from Eldorado and obtain a good two-seater carriage, for he could no longer do without his philosopher Martin. He was sorry only to part with his sheep, which he left at the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences. The academy proposed as the subject of that year’s prize the question of why this sheep’s wool was red; and the prize was awarded to a scholar from the North, who proved by A plus B minus C divided by Z that the sheep must be red and must die of sheep pox.
Meanwhile, every traveler Candide met at the roadside inns told him, “We are going to Paris.” This universal eagerness at last made him want to see the capital; it was hardly a detour from the road to Venice.
He entered by the Saint-Marceau suburb and thought himself in the ugliest village in Westphalia.
Candide had scarcely reached his inn when he was stricken with a slight illness brought on by his exertions. Since he wore an enormous diamond on his finger, and a prodigiously heavy casket had been seen among his luggage, two doctors he had not summoned immediately appeared at his bedside, along with a few close friends who never left him and two devout ladies who warmed his broths. Martin said, “I remember falling ill in Paris myself on my first visit. I was very poor; consequently I had no friends, no devout ladies, and no doctors, and I recovered.”
Under the combined force of medicines and bloodletting, however, Candide’s illness became serious. A priest attached to the neighborhood parish came gently to ask him for a note payable to the bearer in the next world. Candide would have none of it. The devout ladies assured him it was the latest fashion; Candide replied that he was not a fashionable man. Martin wanted to throw the priest out of the window. The cleric swore Candide would never be buried. Martin swore he would bury the cleric if he kept troubling them. The quarrel grew heated: Martin took him by the shoulders and threw him out roughly, causing a great scandal, of which an official report was drawn up.
Candide recovered, and during his convalescence he had excellent company to supper at his lodgings. They played for high stakes. Candide was astonished that the aces never came to him; Martin was not astonished at all.
Among those who showed him the sights was a little abbé from Périgord, one of those bustling men, always alert, always obliging, brazen, ingratiating, accommodating, who lie in wait for passing foreigners, tell them the city’s scandals, and offer them pleasures at any price. First he took Candide and Martin to the theater. A new tragedy was playing. Candide found himself seated beside several men of wit. That did not prevent him from weeping at scenes that were superbly performed. During an intermission, one of the critics beside him said, “You are quite wrong to weep. That actress is very bad; the actor with her is worse still; the play is even worse than its actors. The author does not know a word of Arabic, though the play is set in Arabia; moreover, he is a man who does not believe in innate ideas. Tomorrow I shall bring you twenty pamphlets against him.” “Sir, how many plays do you have in France?” Candide asked the abbé, who replied, “Five or six thousand.” “That is a great many,” said Candide. “How many of them are good?” “Fifteen or sixteen,” replied the other. “That is a great many,” said Martin.
Let your fidelity in painting manners extendEven to the names of your least important players,So that when we pronounce them, they reveal to usThe countries and the times in which you bring them back to life.I am vexed to see, achieving nothing,Hidaspes the Indian at the side of Oedipus the Theban.
Voltaire took the criticism to heart and substituted Araspes for Hidaspes. Perhaps it is to these lines by La Grange Chancel that Voltaire alludes here. B.
“… against him. Sir,” the abbé from Périgord said to him, “have you noticed that young woman with such a captivating face and so slender a figure? She will cost you only ten thousand francs a month, and fifty thousand écus in diamonds.” “I have only a day or two to give her,” replied Candide, “because I have an urgent rendezvous in Venice.”
That evening, after supper, the insinuating Périgordian redoubled his courtesies and attentions. “So you have a rendezvous in Venice, sir,” he said, “and so on.” (See page 306.)
The present text is found as early as 1761. B.
Candide was delighted with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a rather dull tragedy sometimes performed. “I like this actress very much,” he said to Martin. “She bears a faint resemblance to Mademoiselle Cunégonde; I should be happy to greet her.” The abbé from Périgord offered to introduce him to her. Candide, brought up in Germany, asked about the etiquette and how queens of England were treated in France. “We must make a distinction,” said the abbé. “In the provinces, they are taken to the tavern; in Paris, they are respected when they are beautiful and thrown on the rubbish heap when they are dead.” “Queens on the rubbish heap!” said Candide. “Indeed,” said Martin. “The abbé is right. I was in Paris when Mademoiselle Monime passed, as they say, from this life to the next. They denied her what these people call the honors of burial—that is, the right to rot with all the neighborhood beggars in a wretched cemetery. She was buried alone, apart from her company, on a corner of the rue de Bourgogne, which must have distressed her exceedingly, for she thought very nobly.” “That is very rude,” said Candide. “What can you expect?” said Martin. “That is how these people are made. Imagine every possible contradiction, every possible incompatibility, and you will see them in the government, the courts, the churches, and the theaters of this peculiar nation.” “Is it true that people are always laughing in Paris?” said Candide. “Yes,” said the abbé, “but with rage; for they complain of everything amid great bursts of laughter, and even commit the most detestable acts while laughing.”
“Who was that fat pig,” said Candide, “who spoke so badly of the play that made me weep, and of the actors who gave me so much pleasure?” “A scoundrel,” replied the abbé, “who makes his living speaking ill of every play and every book. He hates anyone who succeeds, as eunuchs hate men who can enjoy themselves. He is one of those snakes of literature that feed on filth and venom; he is a hack journalist.” “What do you mean by a hack journalist?” said Candide. “A scribbler of news sheets,” said the abbé, “a Fréron.”
Thus Candide, Martin, and the Périgordian talked on the stairs as they watched the audience file out after the play. “Though I am exceedingly eager to see Mademoiselle Cunégonde again,” said Candide, “I should nevertheless like to have supper with Mademoiselle Clairon, for I thought her marvelous.”
The abbé was not the kind of man who could approach Mademoiselle Clairon, who saw only respectable company. “She has an engagement tonight,” he said, “but I shall have the honor of taking you to a lady of rank, and there you will get to know Paris as well as if you had spent four years in it.”
Candide, naturally curious, let himself be taken to the lady’s house at the far end of the Saint-Honoré suburb. A game of faro was in progress; twelve melancholy punters each held a little packet of cards, its bent corners a record of their misfortunes. A profound silence reigned; pallor lay on the punters’ brows, anxiety on the banker’s. The lady of the house sat beside this merciless banker and noted with lynx eyes every paroli and every reckless sept-et-le-va for which the players folded the corners of their cards. She had the corners unfolded with severe but courteous attention, and did not grow angry, for fear of losing her customers. The lady called herself the Marquise de Parolignac. Her daughter, aged fifteen years, was one of the punters and signaled with a glance the cheating of these poor people trying to make good the cruelties of fortune. The abbé from Périgord, Candide, and Martin entered; no one rose or greeted them or looked at them; everyone was absorbed in the cards. “Madame the Baroness of Thunder-ten-tronckh had better manners,” said Candide.
The abbé meanwhile whispered in the marquise’s ear. She half rose, honored Candide with a gracious smile and Martin with a nod of the utmost nobility. She had a chair and a pack of cards brought to Candide, who lost fifty thousand francs in two deals. Afterward they supped very merrily, and everyone was astonished that Candide was unmoved by his loss. The footmen said to one another in their footmen’s language, “He must be some English milord.” Supper was like most Parisian suppers: first silence, then a din of indistinguishable voices, then jokes, most of them insipid, false reports, bad arguments, a little politics, and a great deal of malicious gossip; they even discussed new books. “Have you seen,” said the abbé from Périgord, “the novel by Monsieur Gauchat, doctor of theology?” “Yes,” answered one of the guests, “but I could not finish it. We have crowds of impertinent writings, yet all of them together fall short of the impertinence of Gauchat, doctor of theology. I am so sated with this immense flood of detestable books that I have taken to betting at faro.” “And what do you think of the Mélanges of Archdeacon Trublet?” said the abbé. “Ah,” said Madame de Parolignac, “what a tedious mortal! How painstakingly he tells you what everyone knows! How ponderously he discusses what is not worth so much as a passing remark! How witlessly he appropriates other people’s wit! How he spoils everything he plunders! How he disgusts me! But he will disgust me no longer; a few pages of the archdeacon were enough.”
At the table was a learned man of taste who supported what the marquise had said. Then they spoke of tragedies, and the lady asked why some tragedies could be performed from time to time but could not be read. The man of taste explained very well how a play could hold some interest and yet have almost no merit. He showed in a few words that it was not enough to present one or two of those situations found in every novel, which always beguile an audience; a writer must be original without being bizarre, often sublime and always natural, must know the human heart and make it speak, must be a great poet without ever letting any character in the play seem like a poet, must know his language perfectly and write it purely and with unbroken harmony, without ever sacrificing sense to rhyme. “Anyone,” he added, “who fails to observe all these rules may write one or two tragedies that win applause onstage, but will never be counted among good writers. There are very few good tragedies. Some are idylls in well-written, well-rhymed dialogue; others are political arguments that put one to sleep, or prolix speeches that repel; still others are the dreams of a madman in barbarous language, broken remarks, long appeals to the gods because the writer does not know how to speak to men, false maxims, and inflated commonplaces.”
Candide listened attentively and formed a high opinion of the speaker. As the marquise had taken care to seat him beside her, he leaned toward her ear and ventured to ask who this man was who spoke so well. “A scholar,” said the lady, “who does not bet at faro, and whom the abbé sometimes brings to supper. He knows tragedies and books to perfection, and has written a tragedy that was hissed off the stage and a book of which only one copy has ever left the bookseller’s shop—the one he dedicated to me.” “What a great man!” said Candide. “Another Pangloss.”
Then, turning to him, Candide said, “Sir, no doubt you believe that everything is for the best in the physical and moral world, and that nothing could be otherwise?” “I, sir?” the scholar answered. “I believe nothing of the sort. I find that everything among us goes awry; no one knows his rank, his duties, what he is doing, or what he ought to do. Apart from supper, which is cheerful enough and shows a fair amount of harmony, all the rest of our time is spent in foolish quarrels: Jansenists against Molinists, men of parliament against men of the church, writers against writers, courtiers against courtiers, financiers against the people, wives against husbands, relatives against relatives. It is an eternal war.”
Candide replied, “I have seen worse; but a wise man, who afterward had the misfortune to be hanged, taught me that all this is splendid: these are shadows in a beautiful painting.” “Your hanged man was making fools of everyone,” said Martin. “Your shadows are hideous blotches.” “It is men who make the blotches,” said Candide, “and they cannot help doing so.” “Then it is not their fault,” said Martin. Most of the punters, who understood nothing of this conversation, drank; Martin reasoned with the scholar, and Candide recounted some of his adventures to the lady of the house.
After supper, the marquise led Candide into her private room and seated him on a sofa. “Well,” she said, “are you still desperately in love with Mademoiselle Cunégonde de Thunder-ten-tronckh?” “Yes, madame,” replied Candide. The marquise answered with a tender smile, “You reply like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said to me, ‘It is true that I loved Mademoiselle Cunégonde, but now that I see you, madame, I fear I love her no longer.’” “Alas, madame,” said Candide, “I shall answer however you wish.” “Your passion for her,” said the marquise, “began when you picked up her handkerchief; I want you to pick up my garter.” “With all my heart,” said Candide, and he picked it up. “But I want you to put it back on me,” said the lady, and Candide put it back on her. “You see,” said the lady, “you are a foreigner. I sometimes keep my Parisian lovers waiting fifteen days, but I yield to you on the first night, because one must show a young man from Westphalia the hospitality of one’s country.” The beauty caught sight of two enormous diamonds on her young foreigner’s hands and praised them with such sincerity that they passed from Candide’s fingers to the marquise’s.
On his way back with his abbé from Périgord, Candide felt some remorse at having been unfaithful to Mademoiselle Cunégonde. The abbé shared his sorrow: he had received only a small portion of the fifty thousand livres Candide had lost at cards, and of the value of the two diamonds, half given and half extorted. His intention was to profit as much as possible from whatever advantages his acquaintance with Candide might bring him. He spoke a great deal about Cunégonde, and Candide told him that he would certainly ask her forgiveness for his infidelity when he saw her in Venice.
The Périgordian redoubled his courtesies and attentions, taking a tender interest in everything Candide said, everything he did, and everything he wanted to do.
“So, sir,” he said to him, “you have a rendezvous in Venice?” “Yes, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Candide. “I must absolutely go and find Mademoiselle Cunégonde.” Then, carried away by the pleasure of speaking of the woman he loved, he related, as was his habit, some of his adventures with that illustrious Westphalian lady.
“I believe,” said the abbé, “that Mademoiselle Cunégonde has a fine mind and writes charming letters.” “I have never received one,” said Candide. “You see, after I was driven from the castle for loving her, I could not write to her. Soon afterward I learned she was dead; then I found her again, and then I lost her, and I have sent a messenger to her two thousand five hundred leagues from here, whose reply I am awaiting.”
The abbé listened closely and seemed somewhat thoughtful. Soon he took leave of the two strangers, after embracing them affectionately. The next day, on waking, Candide received a letter worded as follows:
“My very dear lover, for eight days I have been ill in this city; I hear that you are here. I would fly into your arms if I could move. I learned that you passed through Bordeaux; I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman there, and they are soon to follow me. The governor of Buenos Aires has taken everything, but your heart is still mine. Come: your presence will restore me to life or make me die of joy.”
This charming, unexpected letter filled Candide with inexpressible joy; and the illness of his dear Cunégonde overwhelmed him with grief. Torn between these two feelings, he gathered his gold and diamonds and had himself driven with Martin to the hotel where Mademoiselle Cunégonde was staying. He entered trembling with emotion, his heart pounding, his voice breaking with sobs. He wanted to open the bed curtains; he wanted someone to bring a light. “You must not,” said the attendant. “The light would kill her,” and at once she closed the curtain again. “My dear Cunégonde,” Candide said through his tears, “how are you feeling? If you cannot see me, at least speak to me.” “She cannot speak,” said the attendant. At that, the lady extended a plump hand from the bed. Candide bathed it for a long time with his tears, then filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag full of gold on the armchair.
Amid his raptures an officer of the law arrived, followed by the abbé from Périgord and a squad of men. “So these are the two suspicious foreigners?” he said. He had them seized immediately and ordered his men to drag them off to prison. “Travelers are not treated this way in Eldorado,” said Candide. “I am more of a Manichaean than ever,” said Martin. “But, sir, where are you taking us?” said Candide. “To the bottom of a dungeon,” said the officer.
Having recovered his composure, Martin concluded that the woman who claimed to be Cunégonde was a swindler, the abbé from Périgord another swindler who had made quick use of Candide’s innocence, and the officer a third swindler who could easily be dealt with.
Rather than expose himself to the machinery of justice, Candide, guided by his adviser and still impatient to see the real Cunégonde again, offered the officer three small diamonds worth about three thousand pistoles each. “Ah, sir,” said the man with the ivory baton, “even if you had committed every imaginable crime, you are the most honorable man in the world! Three diamonds! Each worth three thousand pistoles! Sir, I would let myself be killed for you rather than take you to a dungeon. All foreigners are being arrested, but leave it to me. I have a brother in Dieppe, in Normandy; I shall take you to him, and if you have a diamond to give him, he will look after you just as I would.”
“And why are all foreigners being arrested?” said Candide. The abbé from Périgord then spoke: “Because a wretch from the country of Atrebates heard some foolish talk. That alone led him to commit a murder of the king—not one like that of May 1610, but one like that of December 1594, and like several others committed in other years and other months by other wretches who had heard foolish talk.”
The officer then explained what had happened. “Ah, the monsters!” cried Candide. “What! Such horrors among a people who dance and sing! Can I not get out at once from this country where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen bears in my own country; I have seen men only in Eldorado. For God’s sake, sir, take me to Venice, where I am to wait for Mademoiselle Cunégonde.” “I can take you only to Lower Normandy,” said the officer. He immediately had Candide’s shackles removed, said he had made a mistake, dismissed his men, took Candide and Martin to Dieppe, and left them in his brother’s hands. A small Dutch vessel lay at anchor offshore. The Norman, made the most obliging of men with the help of three more diamonds, put Candide and his companions aboard the vessel, which was about to sail for Portsmouth in England. That was not the way to Venice; but Candide believed he had escaped from hell, and fully intended to resume his journey to Venice at the first opportunity.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the French text of all thirty chapters (Beuchot edition, 1829). The editor’s notes are omitted.
What Happened to Candide and Martin in France.
Candide stayed in Bordeaux only long enough to sell a few stones from Eldorado and get a comfortable two-seater carriage. By now he couldn't do without his philosopher Martin. He was very sorry to part with his sheep, though. He left it with the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences. The academy set a prize that year for finding out why its wool was red. The prize went to a scholar from the north who proved, by A plus B minus C divided by Z, that the sheep had to be red and had to die of sheep pox.
Meanwhile every traveler Candide met at the inns along the way told him, “We're going to Paris.” All this interest finally made him want to see the capital. It was not far out of his way to Venice.
He entered through the suburb of Saint-Marceau and thought he was in the ugliest village in Westphalia.
Candide had hardly arrived at his inn when a mild illness brought on by his travels struck him. He had a huge diamond on his finger, and someone had spotted an extremely heavy box among his belongings. So two doctors he had not called for appeared at his bedside right away. A few close friends who would not leave him and two devout women who heated his broths appeared as well. Martin said, “I remember being sick in Paris on my first visit too. I was very poor, so I had no friends, devout women, or doctors. And I got better.”
But all the medicines and bloodletting made Candide's illness serious. A priest attached to the local church came and gently asked him for a promissory note payable to its bearer in the next world. Candide refused. The devout women assured him that it was the new fashion. Candide replied that he was not a fashionable man. Martin wanted to throw the priest out of the window. The priest's clerk swore that Candide would not be buried. Martin swore he would bury the clerk if he kept bothering them. The argument grew heated. Martin took the man by the shoulders and threw him out roughly. This caused a great scandal, and an official report was drawn up.
Candide recovered. While he was getting his strength back, he had some very good company over for dinner. They played cards for high stakes. Candide was amazed that he never got any aces. Martin was not amazed.
One of the people showing him around the city was a little abbot from Périgord. He belonged to the type who are always eager, alert, and helpful, as well as shameless, flattering, and ready to accommodate anyone. They watch for travelers passing through, tell them the city's scandals, and offer them pleasures at any price. First he took Candide and Martin to the theater. A new tragedy was being performed. Candide sat beside a few intellectuals. Their presence did not stop him from crying at scenes that were acted perfectly. During an intermission, one of the men beside him, who liked to argue, said, “You're very wrong to cry. That actress is terrible. The actor with her is even worse. The play is worse than either of them. The author doesn't know a word of Arabic, yet he has set it in Arabia. What's more, he doesn't believe in innate ideas. I'll bring you twenty pamphlets against him tomorrow.” “Sir,” Candide asked the abbot, “how many plays are there in France?” “Five or six thousand,” the abbot replied. “That's a lot,” said Candide. “How many of them are good?” “Fifteen or sixteen,” the abbot replied. “That's a lot,” said Martin.
Candide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a rather dull tragedy that was performed from time to time. “I like that actress a lot,” he said to Martin. “She looks a little like Miss Cunégonde. I'd be glad to meet her.” The abbot from Périgord offered to introduce him. Candide, who had grown up in Germany, asked what the etiquette was and how queens of England were treated in France. “It depends,” said the abbot. “In the provinces, they're taken to a tavern. In Paris, they're respected when they're beautiful and thrown on the garbage heap when they die.” “Queens on the garbage heap!” said Candide. “Indeed,” said Martin. “The abbot is right. I was in Paris when Miss Monime passed, as they say, from this life to the next. They denied her what people here call the honors of burial. That is, they would not let her rot with all the neighborhood's beggars in an ugly cemetery. She was buried by herself, away from her troupe, at the corner of the rue de Bourgogne. That must have upset her very much, for she thought in very noble terms.” “That's very rude,” said Candide. “What can you do?” said Martin. “That's how these people are. Imagine every possible contradiction and inconsistency. You'll see them in this strange nation's government, courts, churches, and theaters.” “Is it true people always laugh in Paris?” asked Candide. “Yes,” said the abbot, “but they laugh while they're furious. They complain about everything with loud bursts of laughter. They even commit the most horrible acts while laughing.”
“Who was that fat pig,” said Candide, “who spoke so badly of the play that made me cry so much and of the actors I enjoyed so much?” “A nasty man,” answered the abbot. “He makes a living attacking every play and every book. He hates anyone who succeeds, just as eunuchs hate people who can enjoy sex. He's one of those literary snakes who live on filth and venom. He's a hack journalist.” “What do you mean by a hack journalist?” said Candide. “A writer of cheap periodicals,” said the abbot. “A Fréron.”
Candide, Martin, and the man from Périgord had this conversation on the stairs as they watched the audience file out of the theater. “Although I'm very eager to see Miss Cunégonde again,” said Candide, “I'd still like to have dinner with Miss Clairon. I thought she was wonderful.”
The abbot was in no position to get close to Miss Clairon. She associated only with high society. “She has plans tonight,” he said, “but I'll have the honor of taking you to the home of a lady of rank. There you'll get to know Paris as if you'd spent four years here.”
Candide was naturally curious, so he let the abbot take him to the lady's home at the far end of the Saint-Honoré suburb. People there were playing faro. Twelve gloomy gamblers each held a little notebook of cards, its corners folded down to record their losses. Deep silence filled the room. The gamblers' foreheads were pale, and the banker looked worried. The lady of the house sat beside this merciless banker. With sharp eyes she noticed every double-or-nothing bet and every seven-and-the-go wager that a player marked by folding a corner of a card. She had each corner unfolded, watching closely but politely. She did not get angry for fear of losing her customers. The lady called herself the Marquise de Parolignac. Her fifteen-year-old daughter was among the gamblers. She signaled with a glance when the poor players cheated in an effort to make up for the cruelty of chance. The abbot from Périgord, Candide, and Martin came in. No one stood up, greeted them, or even looked at them. Everyone was completely absorbed in the cards. “Baroness Thunder-ten-tronckh was more polite,” said Candide.
The abbot whispered in the marquise's ear. She half rose, gave Candide a gracious smile, and acknowledged Martin with an extremely dignified nod. She had someone bring Candide a chair and a pack of cards. In two rounds he lost fifty thousand francs. After that, they had a very cheerful dinner. Everyone was surprised that Candide was not upset by his loss. The servants said to each other, in the way servants talk, “He must be some English lord.” The dinner was like most dinners in Paris: silence at first, then a jumble of voices that could not be made out. Then came jokes, most of them flat, false news, bad arguments, a little politics, and a lot of gossip. They even talked about new books. “Have you seen the novel by Mr. Gauchat, doctor of theology?” asked the abbot from Périgord. “Yes,” answered one guest, “but I couldn't finish it. We have plenty of ridiculous writing, but put it all together and it doesn't come close to the ridiculousness of Gauchat, doctor of theology. I'm so sick of this flood of awful books that I've started betting at faro.” “And what do you think of Archdeacon Trublet's Miscellanies?” the abbot asked. “Ah!” said Madame de Parolignac. “What a tedious man! How curiously he tells you what everyone already knows! How heavily he discusses things hardly worth a passing mention! How he takes other people's wit without any wit of his own! How he ruins whatever he steals! How he disgusts me! But he won't disgust me again. A few pages of the archdeacon were enough.”
At the table was a learned man with good taste who agreed with the marquise. Then they discussed tragedies. The lady asked why some tragedies were performed now and then but could not be read with pleasure. The man of taste explained very clearly how a play could hold some interest yet have almost no merit. In a few words he showed that one or two of the situations found in every novel, which always draw an audience in, were not enough. A playwright must be original without being strange, often inspiring and always natural. He must know the human heart and let it speak. He must be a great poet without letting any character in the play sound like a poet. He must know his language perfectly and use it correctly and with a steady flow, without ever sacrificing the meaning for a rhyme. “Anyone who doesn't follow all these rules,” he added, “may write one or two tragedies that get applause in the theater, but he'll never be counted among good writers. There are very few good tragedies. Some are idyllic conversations, well written and well rhymed. Others are political arguments that put you to sleep, or long-winded speeches that put you off. Still others are the dreams of a fanatic in crude language: broken-off remarks, long appeals to the gods because the writer doesn't know how to make people speak, false principles, and inflated clichés.”
Candide listened carefully and thought very highly of the speaker. The marquise had made sure to seat Candide beside her, so he leaned close and took the liberty of asking who this man who spoke so well was. “He's a scholar,” said the lady. “He doesn't bet at faro, and the abbot sometimes brings him to dinner. He knows tragedies and books inside out. He wrote a tragedy that was booed off the stage and a book no one has ever seen outside his bookseller's shop except for the copy he dedicated to me.” “What a great man!” said Candide. “Another Pangloss.”
Then he turned to the man and said, “Sir, no doubt you think everything is for the best in the physical and moral world and that nothing could be otherwise?” “I don't believe any of that, sir,” the scholar answered. “I think everything in our country is going wrong. No one knows what his rank is, what his job is, what he's doing, or what he ought to do. Apart from dinner, which is fairly cheerful and where people seem to get along fairly well, the rest of our time is spent on ridiculous quarrels. Jansenists fight Molinists, members of parliament fight churchmen, writers fight writers, courtiers fight courtiers, financiers fight the people, women fight husbands, and relatives fight relatives. It's a war without end.”
“I've seen worse,” Candide replied. “But a wise man, who later had the misfortune of being hanged, taught me that everything is wonderful. These are shadows in a beautiful painting.” “Your hanged man was making fools of everyone,” said Martin. “Your shadows are horrible stains.” “It's people who make the stains,” said Candide, “and they can't help it.” “So it isn't their fault,” said Martin. Most of the gamblers understood none of this talk and just kept drinking. Martin argued with the scholar, and Candide told the lady of the house some of his adventures.
After dinner the marquise led Candide into her private room and seated him on a sofa. “Well,” she said, “are you still madly in love with Miss Cunégonde de Thunder-ten-tronckh?” “Yes, madam,” Candide answered. The marquise gave him a warm smile. “You answer like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said, ‘It's true that I loved Miss Cunégonde, but now that I've seen you, madam, I'm afraid I no longer love her.’” “Oh, madam,” said Candide, “I'll answer however you like.” “Your love for her,” said the marquise, “began when you picked up her handkerchief. I want you to pick up my garter.” “Gladly,” said Candide, and he picked it up. “But I want you to put it back on me,” said the lady, and Candide did. “You see,” said the lady, “you're a foreigner. Sometimes I make my Parisian lovers wait two weeks. But I give in to you on the first night. One must show a young man from Westphalia the hospitality of one's country.” The beauty spotted two enormous diamonds, one on each of her young foreigner's hands. She praised them so sincerely that they passed from Candide's fingers to the marquise's.
As Candide went back with his abbot from Périgord, he felt some guilt about being unfaithful to Miss Cunégonde. The abbot shared his distress, though he had received only a small share of the fifty thousand livres Candide had lost at cards and of the value of the two diamonds, half given away and half extorted. His plan was to profit as much as possible from knowing Candide. He spoke to him a great deal about Cunégonde. Candide said he would certainly ask the beautiful woman to forgive his unfaithfulness when he saw her in Venice.
The man from Périgord became still more polite and attentive. He showed warm interest in everything Candide said, everything he did, and everything he wanted to do.
“So, sir,” he said, “you have an appointment in Venice?” “Yes, Father,” said Candide. “I absolutely must find Miss Cunégonde.” Happy to talk about the woman he loved, he then told the abbot, as he usually did, some of his adventures with this famous Westphalian woman.
“I think,” said the abbot, “that Miss Cunégonde is very clever and writes charming letters.” “I've never received one,” said Candide. “You see, when I was kicked out of the castle for loving her, I couldn't write to her. Soon afterward I heard that she was dead. Then I found her again, and then I lost her. I sent a messenger to her from two thousand five hundred leagues away, and I'm waiting for his answer.”
The abbot listened closely and seemed lost in thought for a moment. Soon he took leave of the two travelers after embracing them warmly. The next morning, when Candide woke up, he received a letter that said:
“Sir, my dearest lover, I have been ill in this city for eight days. I hear that you are here. I would fly into your arms if I could move. I heard that you passed through Bordeaux. I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman there. They should join me soon. The governor of Buenos Aires took everything, but I still have your heart. Come. Your presence will bring me back to life or make me die of joy.”
This charming, unexpected letter filled Candide with joy beyond words. The illness of his dear Cunégonde crushed him with grief. Torn between the two feelings, he took his gold and diamonds and had someone drive him and Martin to the hotel where Miss Cunégonde was staying. He came in trembling with emotion. His heart pounded and his voice shook. He tried to open the bed curtains and called for a light. “Don't do that,” said the maid. “Light would kill her.” She immediately closed the curtains again. “My dear Cunégonde,” Candide said, crying, “how are you? If you can't see me, at least talk to me.” “She can't speak,” said the maid. Then the woman in the bed held out a plump hand. Candide drenched it in tears for a long time. Then he filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag full of gold on the chair.
In the middle of this emotional scene, a police officer arrived with the abbot from Périgord and a squad of men. “So here are the two suspicious foreigners,” he said. He had them seized at once and ordered his men to drag them to prison. “Travelers aren't treated this way in Eldorado,” said Candide. “I'm more of a Manichaean than ever,” said Martin. “But, sir, where are you taking us?” asked Candide. “To the bottom of a dungeon,” said the officer.
Once Martin had regained his composure, he decided that the woman claiming to be Cunégonde was a swindler. The abbot from Périgord was a swindler too, who had quickly taken advantage of Candide's innocence. The officer was another swindler, and one they could easily get rid of.
Rather than face the workings of the courts, Candide took his adviser's hint. He was also still eager to see the real Cunégonde. He offered the officer three little diamonds worth about three thousand pistoles each. “Ah, sir,” said the man with the ivory baton, “even if you had committed every crime imaginable, you're the most honorable man in the world! Three diamonds, each worth three thousand pistoles! Sir, I would die for you rather than take you to a dungeon. All foreigners are being arrested, but leave this to me. I have a brother in Dieppe in Normandy. I'll take you to him. If you have a diamond to give him, he'll take care of you as well as I would.”
“And why are all foreigners being arrested?” asked Candide. Then the abbot from Périgord spoke up. “Because a scoundrel from Atrébatie heard some foolish talk. That alone made him murder a king. It wasn't like the murder in May 1610, but like the one in December 1594, and like several others committed in other years and other months by other scoundrels who had heard foolish talk.”
The officer explained what had happened. “Ah, those monsters!” cried Candide. “Such horrors among a people who dance and sing! Can't I get out as fast as possible from this country where monkeys provoke tigers? I've seen bears in my own country. I've seen human beings only in Eldorado. For God's sake, officer, take me to Venice, where I'm supposed to wait for Miss Cunégonde.” “I can only take you to Lower Normandy,” said the officer. At once he had Candide's shackles removed, said he had made a mistake, sent his men away, and took Candide and Martin to Dieppe, leaving them in his brother's hands. There was a small Dutch ship anchored offshore. With the help of three more diamonds, the Norman became the most helpful of men. He put Candide and his companions aboard the ship, which was about to sail for Portsmouth in England. This was not the way to Venice. But Candide felt he had escaped hell, and he was sure he would get back on the road to Venice at the first opportunity.