Voltaire · Complete work
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXIV of 30. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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De Paquette, et de frère Giroflée.
Dès qu’il fut à Venise, il fit chercher Cacambo dans tous les cabarets, dans tous les cafés, chez toutes les filles de joie, et ne le trouva point. Il envoyait tous les jours à la découverte de tous les vaisseaux et de toutes les barques: nulles nouvelles de Cacambo. Quoi! disait-il à Martin, j’ai eu le temps de passer de Surinam à Bordeaux, d’aller de Bordeaux à Paris, de Paris à Dieppe, de Dieppe à Portsmouth, de côtoyer le Portugal et l’Espagne, de traverser toute la Méditerranée, de passer quelques mois à Venise; et la belle Cunégonde n’est point venue! Je n’ai rencontré au lieu d’elle qu’une drôlesse et un abbé périgourdin! Cunégonde est morte, sans doute; je n’ai plus qu’à mourir. Ah! il valait mieux rester dans le paradis du Dorado que de revenir dans cette maudite Europe. Que vous avez raison, mon cher Martin! tout n’est qu’illusion et calamité.
Il tomba dans une mélancolie noire, et ne prit aucune part à l’opéra alla moda, ni aux autres divertissements du carnaval; pas une dame ne lui donna la moindre tentation. Martin lui dit: Vous êtes bien simple, en vérité, de vous figurer qu’un valet métis, qui a cinq ou six millions dans ses poches, ira chercher votre maîtresse au bout du monde, et vous l’amènera à Venise. Il la prendra pour lui, s’il la trouve; s’il ne la trouve pas, il en prendra une autre: je vous conseille d’oublier votre valet Cacambo et votre maîtresse Cunégonde. Martin n’était pas consolant. La mélancolie de Candide augmenta, et Martin ne cessait de lui prouver qu’il y avait peu de vertu et peu de bonheur sur la terre; excepté peut-être dans Eldorado, où personne ne pouvait aller.
En disputant sur cette matière importante, et en attendant Cunégonde, Candide aperçut un jeune théatin dans la place Saint-Marc, qui tenait sous le bras une fille. Le théatin paraissait frais, potelé, vigoureux; ses yeux étaient brillants, son air assuré, sa mine haute, sa démarche fière. La fille était très jolie, et chantait; elle regardait amoureusement son théatin, et de temps en temps lui pinçait ses grosses joues. Vous m’avouerez du moins, dit Candide à Martin, que ces gens-ci sont heureux. Je n’ai trouvé jusqu’à présent dans toute la terre habitable, excepté dans Eldorado, que des infortunés; mais pour cette fille et ce théatin, je gage que ce sont des créatures très heureuses. Je gage que non, dit Martin. Il n’y a qu’à les prier à dîner, dit Candide, et vous verrez si je me trompe.
Aussitôt il les aborde, il leur fait son compliment, et les invite à venir à son hôtellerie manger des macaronis, des perdrix de Lombardie, des oeufs d’esturgeon, et à boire du vin de Montepulciano, du lacryma-christi, du chypre, et du samos. La demoiselle rougit, le théatin accepta la partie, et la fille le suivit en regardant Candide avec des yeux de surprise et de confusion, qui furent obscurcis de quelques larmes. A peine fut-elle entrée dans la chambre de Candide, qu’elle lui dit: Eh quoi! monsieur Candide ne reconnaît plus Paquette! A ces mots Candide, qui ne l’avait pas considérée jusque-là avec attention, parcequ’il n’était occupé que de Cunégonde, lui dit: Hélas! ma pauvre enfant, c’est donc vous qui avez mis le docteur Pangloss dans le bel état où je l’ai vu?
Hélas! monsieur, c’est moi-même, dit Paquette; je vois que vous êtes instruit de tout. J’ai su les malheurs épouvantables arrivés à toute la maison de madame la baronne et à la belle Cunégonde. Je vous jure que ma destinée n’a guère été moins triste. J’étais fort innocente quand vous m’avez vue. Un cordelier, qui était mon confesseur, me séduisit aisément. Les suites en furent affreuses; je fus obligée de sortir du château quelque temps après que M. le baron vous eut renvoyé à grands coups de pied dans le derrière. Si un fameux médecin n’avait pas pris pitié de moi, j’étais morte. Je fus quelque temps par reconnaissance la maîtresse de ce médecin. Sa femme, qui était jalouse à la rage, me battait tous les jours impitoyablement; c’était une furie. Ce médecin était le plus laid de tous les hommes, et moi la plus malheureuse de toutes les créatures d’être battue continuellement pour un homme que je n’aimais pas. Vous savez, monsieur, combien il est dangereux pour une femme acariâtre d’être l’épouse d’un médecin. Celui-ci, outré des procédés de sa femme, lui donna un jour, pour la guérir d’un petit rhume, une médecine si efficace, qu’elle en mourut en deux heures de temps dans des convulsions horribles. Les parents de madame intentèrent à monsieur un procès criminel; il prit la fuite, et moi je fus mise en prison. Mon innocence ne m’aurait pas sauvée, si je n’avais été un peu jolie. Le juge m’élargit à condition qu’il succéderait au médecin. Je fus bientôt supplantée par une rivale, chassée sans récompense, et obligée de continuer ce métier abominable qui vous paraît si plaisant à vous autres hommes, et qui n’est pour nous qu’un abîme de misère. J’allai exercer la profession à Venise. Ah! monsieur, si vous pouviez vous imaginer ce que c’est que d’être obligée de caresser indifféremment un vieux marchand, un avocat, un moine, un gondolier, un abbé; d’être exposée à toutes les insultes, à toutes les avanies; d’être souvent réduite à emprunter une jupe pour aller se la faire lever par un homme dégoûtant; d’être volée par l’un de ce qu’on a gagné avec l’autre; d’être rançonnée par les officiers de justice, et de n’avoir en perspective qu’une vieillesse affreuse, un hôpital, et un fumier, vous concluriez que je suis une des plus malheureuses créatures du monde.
Paquette ouvrait ainsi son coeur au bon Candide, dans un cabinet, en présence de Martin, qui disait à Candide: Vous voyez que j’ai déjà gagné la moitié de la gageure.
Frère Giroflée était resté dans la salle à manger, et buvait un coup en attendant le dîner. Mais, dit Candide à Paquette, vous aviez l’air si gai, si content, quand je vous ai rencontrée; vous chantiez, vous caressiez le théatin avec une complaisance naturelle; vous m’avez paru aussi heureuse que vous prétendez être infortunée. Ah! monsieur, répondit Paquette, c’est encore là une des misères du métier. J’ai été hier volée et battue par un officier, et il faut aujourd’hui que je paraisse de bonne humeur pour plaire à un moine.
Candide n’en voulut pas davantage; il avoua que Martin avait raison. On se mit à table avec Paquette et le théatin; le repas fut assez amusant, et sur la fin on se parla avec quelque confiance. Mon père, dit Candide au moine, vous me paraissez jouir d’une destinée que tout le monde doit envier; la fleur de la santé brille sur votre visage, votre physionomie annonce le bonheur; vous avez une très jolie fille pour votre récréation, et vous paraissez très content de votre état de théatin.
Ma foi, monsieur, dit frère Giroflée, je voudrais que tous les théatins fussent au fond de la mer. J’ai été tenté cent fois de mettre le feu au couvent, et d’aller me faire turc. Mes parents me forcèrent, à l’âge de quinze ans, d’endosser cette détestable robe, pour laisser plus de fortune à un maudit frère aîné, que Dieu confonde! La jalousie, la discorde, la rage, habitent dans le couvent. Il est vrai que j’ai prêché quelques mauvais sermons qui m’ont valu un peu d’argent dont le prieur me vole la moitié; le reste me sert à entretenir des filles: mais quand je rentre le soir dans le monastère, je suis prêt à me casser la tête contre les murs du dortoir; et tous mes confrères sont dans le même cas.
Martin se tournant vers Candide avec son sang froid ordinaire: Eh bien! lui dit-il, n’ai-je pas gagné la gageure tout entière? Candide donna deux mille piastres à Paquette, et mille piastres à frère Giroflée. Je vous réponds, dit-il, qu’avec cela ils seront heureux. Je n’en crois rien du tout, dit Martin; vous les rendrez peut-être avec ces piastres beaucoup plus malheureux encore. Il en sera ce qui pourra, dit Candide: mais une chose me console, je vois qu’on retrouve souvent les gens qu’on ne croyait jamais retrouver; il se pourra bien faire qu’ayant rencontré mon mouton rouge et Paquette, je rencontre aussi Cunégonde. Je souhaite, dit Martin, qu’elle fasse un jour votre bonheur; mais c’est de quoi je doute fort. Vous êtes bien dur, dit Candide. C’est que j’ai vécu, dit Martin. Mais regardez ces gondoliers, dit Candide: ne chantent-ils pas sans cesse? Vous ne les voyez pas dans leur ménage, avec leurs femmes et leurs marmots d’enfants, dit Martin. Le doge a ses chagrins, les gondoliers ont les leurs. Il est vrai qu’à tout prendre le sort d’un gondolier est préférable à celui d’un doge; mais je crois la différence si médiocre, que cela ne vaut pas la peine d’être examiné.
On parle, dit Candide, du sénateur Pococurante, qui demeure dans ce beau palais sur la Brenta, et qui reçoit assez bien les étrangers. On prétend que c’est un homme qui n’a jamais eu de chagrin. Je voudrais voir une espèce si rare, dit Martin. Candide aussitôt fit demander au seigneur Pococurante la permission de venir le voir le lendemain.
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.
Of Paquette and Brother Giroflée.
As soon as he arrived in Venice, he had Cacambo sought in every tavern, every café, and every house of ill repute, but could not find him. Every day he sent people to search all the ships and boats: no news of Cacambo. “What!” he said to Martin. “I have had time to travel from Surinam to Bordeaux, from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to skirt the coasts of Portugal and Spain, to cross the whole Mediterranean, and to spend several months in Venice; and the beautiful Cunégonde has not come! Instead of her I have met only a hussy and a Périgord abbé! Cunégonde is dead, no doubt; nothing remains for me but to die. Ah, it would have been better to stay in the paradise of Eldorado than to return to this accursed Europe. How right you are, my dear Martin! All is illusion and calamity.”
He sank into a black melancholy, and took no part in the fashionable opera or the other pleasures of carnival; not a single lady stirred in him the slightest temptation. Martin said to him, “You really are simple to imagine that a servant of mixed ancestry with five or six million in his pockets will go looking for your beloved at the end of the world and bring her to you in Venice. He will keep her for himself if he finds her; if he does not, he will find someone else. I advise you to forget your servant Cacambo and your beloved Cunégonde.” Martin offered little consolation. Candide’s melancholy deepened, and Martin never ceased demonstrating to him that there was little virtue and little happiness on earth, except perhaps in Eldorado, where no one could go.
While arguing over this important question and awaiting Cunégonde, Candide noticed a young Theatine in Saint Mark’s Square with a girl on his arm. The Theatine looked fresh-faced, plump, and vigorous; his eyes shone, his manner was confident, his bearing proud, his step imperious. The girl was very pretty and was singing; she looked lovingly at her Theatine and from time to time pinched his fat cheeks. “You must at least admit,” Candide said to Martin, “that these people are happy. Until now I have found nothing but the unfortunate throughout the habitable world, except in Eldorado; but I wager that this girl and this Theatine are very happy creatures.” “I wager they are not,” said Martin. “We need only invite them to dinner,” said Candide, “and you will see whether I am mistaken.”
He went up to them at once, greeted them, and invited them to his lodgings for macaroni, Lombard partridges, sturgeon eggs, and wine from Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi, Cyprus, and Samos. The young woman blushed, the Theatine accepted the invitation, and she followed him, looking at Candide with startled and confused eyes clouded by a few tears. Scarcely had she entered Candide’s room when she said, “What! Does Monsieur Candide no longer recognize Paquette?” At these words Candide, who until then had not looked closely at her because his thoughts were wholly of Cunégonde, said, “Alas, my poor child! So it was you who left Doctor Pangloss in the fine condition in which I found him?”
“Alas, sir, it was indeed I,” said Paquette. “I see that you know everything. I learned of the dreadful misfortunes that befell the whole household of Madame the Baroness and the beautiful Cunégonde. I swear that my fate has scarcely been less wretched. I was quite innocent when you knew me. A Franciscan friar who was my confessor seduced me easily. The consequences were terrible; I had to leave the castle not long after Monsieur the Baron kicked you out. If a famous physician had not taken pity on me, I would have died. Out of gratitude I became the physician’s mistress for a time. His wife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me mercilessly every day; she was a fury. That physician was the ugliest of men, and I was the most miserable of creatures, continually beaten on account of a man I did not love. You know, sir, how dangerous it is for a shrewish woman to be married to a physician. Driven to despair by his wife’s conduct, he gave her, one day, a medicine for a slight cold so effective that she died within two hours in horrible convulsions. Her relatives brought criminal charges against him; he fled, and I was sent to prison. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been rather pretty. The judge released me on condition that he take the physician’s place. I was soon displaced by a rival, dismissed without compensation, and forced to continue that abominable trade that seems so pleasant to you men and is for us nothing but an abyss of misery. I went to practice it in Venice. Ah, sir, if you could imagine what it means to be obliged to caress without distinction an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, or an abbé; to endure every insult and every indignity; often to be reduced to borrowing a skirt so that a repulsive man can lift it; to have one man steal what you earned from another; to be extorted by the officers of the law, with nothing ahead but a dreadful old age, a hospital, and a dung heap—you would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world.”
Thus Paquette poured out her heart to the good Candide in a private room, with Martin present. “You see,” Martin said to Candide, “that I have already won half the wager.”
Brother Giroflée had stayed in the dining room and was having a drink while he waited for dinner. “But,” Candide said to Paquette, “you looked so cheerful, so content, when I met you. You were singing; you caressed the Theatine with an easy affection. You seemed as happy to me as you now claim to be miserable.” “Ah, sir,” Paquette replied, “that is another of the miseries of the trade. Yesterday an officer robbed and beat me, and today I must appear in good spirits to please a monk.”
Candide needed no more; he admitted that Martin was right. They sat down to dinner with Paquette and the Theatine. The meal was entertaining enough, and toward the end they began to speak with some candor. “Father,” Candide said to the monk, “you seem to enjoy a fate that everyone must envy. The bloom of health shines in your face, your expression speaks of happiness, you have a very pretty girl for your pleasure, and you seem quite content with your life as a Theatine.”
“By God, sir,” said Brother Giroflée, “I wish all the Theatines were at the bottom of the sea. A hundred times I have been tempted to set fire to the convent and go off and become a Turk. My parents forced me, at fifteen, to put on this detestable habit so as to leave a greater fortune to a damned elder brother, whom God confound! Jealousy, discord, and rage dwell in the convent. It is true that I have preached a few poor sermons that have earned me a little money, half of which the prior steals; the rest helps me keep girls. But when I return to the monastery in the evening, I am ready to dash my head against the dormitory walls; and all my fellow monks feel the same.”
Martin turned to Candide with his customary composure. “Well,” he said, “have I not won the whole wager?” Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette and a thousand piastres to Brother Giroflée. “I promise you,” he said, “this will make them happy.” “I do not believe it at all,” said Martin. “Those piastres may make them even more miserable.” “We shall see,” said Candide. “But one thing consoles me: I see that we often find people we thought we would never find again. Since I have encountered my red sheep and Paquette, I may yet encounter Cunégonde.” “I hope,” said Martin, “that one day she makes you happy; but I very much doubt it.” “You are harsh,” said Candide. “I have lived,” said Martin. “But look at these gondoliers,” said Candide. “Aren’t they always singing?” “You do not see them at home with their wives and their swarms of children,” said Martin. “The doge has his sorrows and the gondoliers have theirs. It is true that, on the whole, the lot of a gondolier is preferable to that of a doge; but I believe the difference is so slight that it is not worth examining.”
“People speak,” said Candide, “of the senator Pococurante, who lives in that fine palace on the Brenta and receives strangers kindly enough. They say he has never known sorrow.” “I would like to see so rare a species,” said Martin. Candide immediately sent to ask Signor Pococurante for permission to visit him the next day.
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.
Paquette and Brother Giroflée.
As soon as he reached Venice, Candide had people look for Cacambo in every tavern, every café, and every house of prostitution. They did not find him. Every day he sent people out to check every ship and boat. There was no news of Cacambo. “What!” he said to Martin. “I've had time to go from Surinam to Bordeaux, from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, and from Dieppe to Portsmouth. I've sailed along the coast of Portugal and Spain, crossed the whole Mediterranean, and spent several months in Venice. And the beautiful Cunégonde still hasn't come! All I've found instead of her is a swindling woman and an abbot from Périgord! Cunégonde must be dead. I have nothing left to do but die. Ah, it would have been better to stay in the paradise of Eldorado than to return to this damned Europe. How right you are, dear Martin! Everything is illusion and disaster.”
He sank into a deep depression. He took no interest in the fashionable opera or the other carnival amusements. Not one woman tempted him in the least. Martin said, “You really are naive if you imagine that a servant of mixed ancestry with five or six million in his pockets will go to the ends of the earth to find your sweetheart and bring her to Venice for you. He'll keep her for himself if he finds her. If he doesn't, he'll take another woman. I advise you to forget your servant Cacambo and your sweetheart Cunégonde.” Martin was no comfort. Candide grew more depressed, and Martin kept proving to him that there was little goodness and little happiness on earth, except perhaps in Eldorado, where no one could go.
While they argued about this important subject and waited for Cunégonde, Candide noticed a young Theatine monk in Saint Mark's Square with a young woman on his arm. The monk looked fresh-faced, plump, and strong. His eyes shone; he looked sure of himself, carried his head high, and walked proudly. The young woman was very pretty and was singing. She looked lovingly at her monk and sometimes pinched his round cheeks. “At least you'll admit,” Candide said to Martin, “that these people are happy. So far, everywhere in the inhabited world except Eldorado, I've met only unhappy people. But I bet that this girl and this Theatine are very happy indeed.” “I bet they aren't,” said Martin. “All we have to do is invite them to dinner,” said Candide. “Then you'll see whether I'm wrong.”
He went up to them at once, greeted them, and invited them to his inn. He offered them macaroni, Lombardy partridges, sturgeon eggs, and wines from Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi, Cyprus, and Samos. The young woman blushed. The Theatine accepted the invitation, and she followed him, looking at Candide with surprise and embarrassment. A few tears clouded her eyes. She had barely entered Candide's room when she said, “What! Mr. Candide doesn't recognize Paquette anymore?” Until then, Candide had hardly looked at her because his mind was entirely on Cunégonde. “Oh, my poor girl,” he said. “So you're the one who left Dr. Pangloss in the fine state in which I found him?”
“Yes, sir, it was me,” said Paquette. “I see that you know everything. I heard about the terrible misfortunes that struck everyone in the baroness's household, and the beautiful Cunégonde. I swear my own fate has hardly been less sad. I was quite innocent when you saw me. A Franciscan friar who was my confessor easily seduced me. The consequences were awful. I had to leave the castle shortly after the baron kicked you out. If a famous doctor hadn't taken pity on me, I would have died. For a while I was the doctor's mistress out of gratitude. His wife was wildly jealous and beat me mercilessly every day. She was a monster. That doctor was the ugliest of men, and I was the most miserable of people: I was constantly beaten over a man I didn't love. You know, sir, how dangerous it is for a bad-tempered woman to be married to a doctor. Outraged by his wife's behavior, one day he gave her a medicine for a slight cold. It was so effective that she died two hours later in terrible convulsions. Her family brought criminal charges against him. He ran away, and I was put in prison. My innocence wouldn't have saved me if I hadn't been a little pretty. The judge released me on condition that he take the doctor's place. A rival soon replaced me, and I was thrown out with nothing. I had to keep working in this hateful trade that you men find so pleasant, but for us is a bottomless pit of misery. I went to Venice to practice it. Oh, sir, if you could imagine what it is like to have to show the same affection to an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, and an abbot; to be exposed to every insult and humiliation; to be so poor that you often have to borrow a skirt to go and let a disgusting man lift it; to have one man steal what you earned from another; to be shaken down by officers of the law; and to have nothing ahead but a horrible old age, a hospital, and a heap of filth, you would conclude that I am one of the unhappiest people in the world.”
Paquette poured out her heart to kind Candide in a private room, with Martin there. Martin said to Candide, “You see, I've already won half the bet.”
Brother Giroflée had stayed in the dining room, having a drink while he waited for dinner. “But,” Candide said to Paquette, “you looked so cheerful and pleased when I met you. You were singing and showing affection to the Theatine as though you enjoyed it. You looked just as happy to me as you now say you are miserable.” “Oh, sir,” Paquette answered, “that's another hardship of this work. Yesterday an officer robbed and beat me, and today I have to look cheerful to please a monk.”
Candide needed no more evidence. He admitted that Martin was right. They sat down to eat with Paquette and the Theatine. The meal was fairly entertaining, and toward the end they began to speak a little more openly. “Father,” Candide said to the monk, “your life looks like one everyone would envy. Your face glows with health, and you look happy. You have a very pretty girl to enjoy, and you seem very satisfied with your life as a Theatine.”
“Honestly, sir,” said Brother Giroflée, “I wish every Theatine were at the bottom of the sea. A hundred times I've been tempted to set fire to the monastery and go become a Turk. My parents forced me to put on this hateful robe when I was fifteen so they could leave more money to my damned older brother. May God punish him! Jealousy, conflict, and rage live inside the monastery. It's true I've preached a few bad sermons that brought me a little money. The prior steals half of it, and I use the rest to support women. But when I return to the monastery at night, I feel like smashing my head against the dormitory walls. All my fellow monks feel the same way.”
Martin turned to Candide with his usual calm. “Well,” he said, “haven't I won the whole bet?” Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette and one thousand piastres to Brother Giroflée. “I promise you,” he said, “this will make them happy.” “I don't believe that at all,” said Martin. “Those piastres may make them much more miserable.” “Whatever happens, happens,” said Candide. “But one thing comforts me. I see that people we never thought we'd see again often turn up. Since I've found my red sheep and Paquette, I may find Cunégonde too.” “I hope,” said Martin, “that she makes you happy one day, but I very much doubt it.” “You are very hard on me,” said Candide. “That's because I've lived,” said Martin. “But look at these gondoliers,” said Candide. “Aren't they singing all the time?” “You don't see them at home with their wives and little children,” said Martin. “The doge has his troubles, and the gondoliers have theirs. All things considered, it's true that a gondolier's lot is better than a doge's. But I think the difference is too small to be worth considering.”
“People talk,” said Candide, “about the senator Pococurante, who lives in that beautiful palace on the Brenta and treats visitors fairly well. They say he's a man who has never had a worry.” “I'd like to see such a rare creature,” said Martin. Candide immediately sent a request to Signor Pococurante for permission to visit him the next day.