Candide and Martin in France

Candide stayed in Bordeaux no longer than was necessary for the selling of a few of the pebbles of El Dorado, and for hiring a good chaise to hold two passengers; for he could not travel without his Philosopher Martin. He was only vexed at parting with his sheep, which he left to the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences, who set as a subject for that year's prize, "to find why this sheep's wool was red;" and the prize was awarded to a learned man of the North, who demonstrated by A plus B minus C divided by Z, that the sheep must be red, and die of the rot.

Candide stayed in Bordeaux only as long as he needed to sell a few pebbles from El Dorado. He hired a good carriage for two passengers, because he could not travel without the philosopher Martin. He was only upset about parting with his sheep, which he left to the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences. They set that year's prize topic as "to find why this sheep's wool was red." The prize went to a learned man from the North. He proved, by A plus B minus C divided by Z, that the sheep must be red. He concluded it would die of the rot.

Meanwhile, all the travellers whom Candide met in the inns along his route, said to him, "We go to Paris." This general eagerness at length gave him, too, a desire to see this capital; and it was not so very great a détour from the road to Venice.

Meanwhile, every traveller Candide met at the inns along his route said to him, "We are going to Paris." This general eagerness eventually made him want to see the capital too. It was not such a large détour from the road to Venice.

He entered Paris by the suburb of St. Marceau, and fancied that he was in the dirtiest village of Westphalia.

He entered Paris through the Saint-Marceau suburb. He thought he was in the dirtiest village in Westphalia.

Scarcely was Candide arrived at his inn, than he found himself attacked by a slight illness, caused by fatigue. As he had a very large diamond on his finger, and the people of the inn had taken notice of a prodigiously heavy box among his baggage, there were two physicians to attend him, though he had never sent for them, and two devotees who warmed his broths.

Candide had barely arrived at the inn when he felt a slight illness from fatigue. He wore a very large diamond on his finger, and the inn staff had noticed a very heavy box among his baggage. Two physicians came to attend him, even though he had not sent for them. Two devotees warmed his broths.

"I remember," Martin said, "also to have been sick at Paris in my first voyage; I was very poor, thus I had neither friends, devotees, nor doctors, and I recovered."

"I remember," Martin said, "that I was also sick in Paris on my first trip. I was very poor, so I had no friends, devotees, or doctors. I recovered."

However, what with physic and bleeding, Candide's illness became serious. A parson of the neighborhood came with great meekness to ask for a bill for the other world payable to the bearer. Candide would do nothing for him; but the devotees assured him it was the new fashion. He answered that he was not a man of fashion. Martin wished to throw the priest out of the window. The priest swore that they would not bury Candide. Martin swore that he would bury the priest if he continued to be troublesome. The quarrel grew heated. Martin took him by the shoulders and roughly turned him out of doors; which occasioned great scandal and a law-suit.

However, because of the medicines and bloodletting, Candide's illness became serious. A nearby priest came meekly. He asked for a bill for the next world, payable to whoever brought it. Candide refused to do anything for him. The devotees assured him it was the new fashion. Candide said he was not a man of fashion. Martin wanted to throw the priest out the window. The priest swore they would not bury Candide. Martin swore he would bury the priest if he kept causing trouble. The quarrel grew heated. Martin seized the priest by the shoulders and roughly shoved him out the door. This caused a great scandal and a lawsuit.

Candide got well again, and during his convalescence he had very good company to sup with him. They played high. Candide wondered why it was that the ace never came to him; but Martin was not at all astonished.

Candide recovered. While he was recovering, he had very good company for supper. They played high. Candide wondered why the ace never came to him. Martin was not at all surprised.

Among those who did him the honours of the town was a little Abbé of Perigord, one of those busybodies who are ever alert, officious, forward, fawning, and complaisant; who watch for strangers in their passage through the capital, tell them the scandalous history of the town, and offer them pleasure at all prices. He first took Candide and Martin to La Comédie, where they played a new tragedy. Candide happened to be seated near some of the fashionable wits. This did not prevent his shedding tears at the well-acted scenes. One of these critics at his side said to him between the acts:

Among those who showed him the honors of the town was a little Abbé of Perigord. He was one of those busybodies who are ever alert, officious, forward, fawning, and complaisant. They watch for strangers passing through the capital. They tell them the scandalous history of the town and offer them pleasure at all prices. He first took Candide and Martin to La Comédie, where a new tragedy was playing. Candide happened to be seated near some of the fashionable wits. That did not stop him from shedding tears at the well-acted scenes. One of the critics beside him said to him between the acts:

"Your tears are misplaced; that is a shocking actress; the actor who plays with her is yet worse; and the play is still worse than the actors. The author does not know a word of Arabic, yet the scene is in Arabia; moreover he is a man that does not believe in innate ideas; and I will bring you, to-morrow, twenty pamphlets written against him."²²

"Your tears are misplaced. She is a shocking actress. The actor who plays with her is even worse. The play itself is worse than the actors. The author knows no Arabic. Yet the scene is set in Arabia. He also does not believe in innate ideas. I will bring you twenty pamphlets written against him tomorrow."²²

"How many dramas have you in France, sir?" said Candide to the Abbé.

"How many plays are there in France, sir?" said Candide to the Abbé.

"Five or six thousand."

"Five or six thousand."

"What a number!" said Candide. "How many good?"

"What a crowd!" said Candide. "How many of them are good?"

"Fifteen or sixteen," replied the other.

"Fifteen or sixteen," the other replied.

"What a number!" said Martin.

"That's a lot!" said Martin.

Candide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a somewhat insipid tragedy²³ sometimes acted.

Candide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a somewhat dull tragedy²³ that was occasionally performed.

"That actress," said he to Martin, "pleases me much; she has a likeness to Miss Cunegonde; I should be very glad to wait upon her."

"That actress," he said to Martin, "pleases me a lot. She looks like Miss Cunegonde. I would be very happy to wait on her."

The Perigordian Abbé offered to introduce him. Candide, brought up in Germany, asked what was the etiquette, and how they treated queens of England in France.

The Perigordian abbé offered to introduce him. Candide had been raised in Germany. He asked what the etiquette was. He also asked how English queens were treated in France.

"It is necessary to make distinctions," said the Abbé. "In the provinces one takes them to the inn; in Paris, one respects them when they are beautiful, and throws them on the highway when they are dead."²⁴

"You have to make distinctions," said the Abbé. "In the provinces, people take them to the inn. In Paris, people respect them when they are beautiful, and throw them on the highway when they are dead."²⁴

"Queens on the highway!" said Candide.

"Queens on the road!" said Candide.

"Yes, truly," said Martin, "the Abbé is right. I was in Paris when Miss Monime passed, as the saying is, from this life to the other. She was refused what people call the honours of sepulture—that is to say, of rotting with all the beggars of the neighbourhood in an ugly cemetery; she was interred all alone by her company at the corner of the Rue de Bourgogne, which ought to trouble her much, for she thought nobly."

"Yes, truly," said Martin, "the Abbé is right. I was in Paris when Miss Monime passed, as the saying goes, from this life to the other. She was refused what people call the honours of sepulture. That is to say, she was refused the right to rot with all the beggars of the neighborhood in an ugly cemetery. Her theatre company buried her all alone at the corner of the Rue de Bourgogne. That must have troubled her greatly, for she thought nobly."

"That was very uncivil," said Candide.

"That was very rude," said Candide.

"What would you have?" said Martin; "these people are made thus. Imagine all contradictions, all possible incompatibilities—you will find them in the government, in the law-courts, in the churches, in the public shows of this droll nation."

"What would you have?" said Martin. "These people are made that way. Imagine every contradiction and every possible incompatibility. You will find them in the government and the courts. You will also find them in the churches and the public entertainments of this droll nation."

"Is it true that they always laugh in Paris?" said Candide.

"Is it true that people in Paris are always laughing?" said Candide.

"Yes," said the Abbé, "but it means nothing, for they complain of everything with great fits of laughter; they even do the most detestable things while laughing."

"Yes," said the Abbé. "But it means nothing. They complain about everything in loud fits of laughter. They even do the most detestable things while laughing."

"Who," said Candide, "is that great pig who spoke so ill of the piece at which I wept, and of the actors who gave me so much pleasure?"

"Who," said Candide, "is that great pig who said such bad things about the play that made me cry? He also spoke poorly of the actors who gave me so much pleasure."

"He is a bad character," answered the Abbé, "who gains his livelihood by saying evil of all plays and of all books. He hates whatever succeeds, as the eunuchs hate those who enjoy; he is one of the serpents of literature who nourish themselves on dirt and spite; he is a folliculaire."

"He is a bad character," the Abbé replied. "He makes his living by saying bad things about every play and every book. He hates anything that succeeds, just as eunuchs hate those who enjoy themselves. He is one of the snakes of literature, feeding on filth and spite. He is a folliculaire."

"What is a folliculaire?" said Candide.

"What is a folliculaire?" Candide asked.

"It is," said the Abbé, "a pamphleteer—a Fréron."²⁵

"It is," said the Abbé, "a pamphleteer, a Fréron."²⁵

Thus Candide, Martin, and the Perigordian conversed on the staircase, while watching every one go out after the performance.

Thus Candide, Martin, and the Perigordian talked on the staircase. They watched everyone leave after the performance.

"Although I am eager to see Cunegonde again," said Candide, "I should like to sup with Miss Clairon, for she appears to me admirable."

"I'm eager to see Cunegonde again," said Candide. "But I'd like to have supper with Miss Clairon. She seems admirable to me."

The Abbé was not the man to approach Miss Clairon, who saw only good company.

The Abbé was not the sort of man to approach Miss Clairon. She kept only good company.

"She is engaged for this evening," he said, "but I shall have the honour to take you to the house of a lady of quality, and there you will know Paris as if you had lived in it for years."

"She's busy tonight," he said. "I'll have the honour of taking you to a noblewoman's house. There you'll get to know Paris as if you'd lived here for years."

Candide, who was naturally curious, let himself be taken to this lady's house, at the end of the Faubourg St. Honoré. The company was occupied in playing faro; a dozen melancholy punters held each in his hand a little pack of cards; a bad record of his misfortunes. Profound silence reigned; pallor was on the faces of the punters, anxiety on that of the banker, and the hostess, sitting near the unpitying banker, noticed with lynx-eyes all the doubled and other increased stakes, as each player dog's-eared his cards; she made them turn down the edges again with severe, but polite attention; she showed no vexation for fear of losing her customers. The lady insisted upon being called the Marchioness of Parolignac. Her daughter, aged fifteen, was among the punters, and notified with a covert glance the cheatings of the poor people who tried to repair the cruelties of fate. The Perigordian Abbé, Candide and Martin entered; no one rose, no one saluted them, no one looked at them; all were profoundly occupied with their cards.

Candide was naturally curious. He allowed himself to be taken to this lady's house at the end of the Faubourg St. Honoré. The room was full of people playing faro. About a dozen gloomy gamblers each held a small packet of cards, a testament to their misfortunes. A profound silence reigned. The gamblers looked pale and the banker looked anxious. The hostess sat near the unpitying banker. She watched every doubled or raised stake with lynx-like eyes as each player dog-eared his cards. She made them turn the edges back down with a strict but polite manner. She showed no irritation, for she feared losing her customers. The woman insisted on being called the Marchioness of Parolignac. Her fifteen-year-old daughter sat among the players. With a covert glance she signaled the poor people's cheating, as they tried to make up for the cruelties of fate. The Perigordian Abbé, Candide, and Martin entered. No one rose or greeted them. No one looked at them. Everyone was completely absorbed in their cards.

"The Baroness of Thunder-ten-Tronckh was more polite," said Candide.

"The Baroness of Thunder-ten-Tronckh was more polite," Candide said.

However, the Abbé whispered to the Marchioness, who half rose, honoured Candide with a gracious smile, and Martin with a condescending nod; she gave a seat and a pack of cards to Candide, who lost fifty thousand francs in two deals, after which they supped very gaily, and every one was astonished that Candide was not moved by his loss; the servants said among themselves, in the language of servants:—

However, the Abbé whispered to the Marchioness. She half rose and gave Candide a gracious smile and Martin a condescending nod. She offered Candide a chair and a pack of cards. He lost fifty thousand francs in two deals. After that they supped very gaily. Everyone was astonished that Candide was not moved by his loss. The servants said among themselves, in the language of servants:

"Some English lord is here this evening."

"A certain English lord is here this evening."

The supper passed at first like most Parisian suppers, in silence, followed by a noise of words which could not be distinguished, then with pleasantries of which most were insipid, with false news, with bad reasoning, a little politics, and much evil speaking; they also discussed new books.

The supper began like most Parisian suppers. At first everyone was silent. Then a jumble of words rose that could not be made out. After that came small talk, most of it dull. There was false news and bad reasoning, a little politics, and a lot of gossip. They also talked about new books.

"Have you seen," said the Perigordian Abbé, "the romance of Sieur Gauchat, doctor of divinity?"²⁶

"Have you seen," said the Perigordian Abbé, "the novel by Sieur Gauchat, a doctor of divinity?"²⁶

"Yes," answered one of the guests, "but I have not been able to finish it. We have a crowd of silly writings, but all together do not approach the impertinence of 'Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity.' I am so satiated with the great number of detestable books with which we are inundated that I am reduced to punting at faro."

"Yes," answered one of the guests, "but I have not been able to finish it. We have a crowd of silly writings, but all of them put together do not come near the impertinence of 'Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity.' I am so sick of the great number of detestable books flooding us that I am reduced to betting at faro."

"And the Mélanges of Archdeacon Trublet,²⁷ what do you say of that?" said the Abbé.

"And what do you think of Archdeacon Trublet²⁷'s Mélanges?" said the Abbé.

"Ah!" said the Marchioness of Parolignac, "the wearisome mortal! How curiously he repeats to you all that the world knows! How heavily he discusses that which is not worth the trouble of lightly remarking upon! How, without wit, he appropriates the wit of others! How he spoils what he steals! How he disgusts me! But he will disgust me no longer—it is enough to have read a few of the Archdeacon's pages."

"Ah!" said the Marchioness of Parolignac, "what a tiresome man! How tediously he repeats to you everything the world already knows. How heavily he talks about things not even worth a brief mention. How, with no wit of his own, he takes other people's wit. How he ruins what he borrows. How he disgusts me. But he will disgust me no longer. Reading a few of the Archdeacon's pages is enough."

There was at table a wise man of taste, who supported the Marchioness. They spoke afterwards of tragedies; the lady asked why there were tragedies which were sometimes played and which could not be read. The man of taste explained very well how a piece could have some interest, and have almost no merit; he proved in few words that it was not enough to introduce one or two of those situations which one finds in all romances, and which always seduce the spectator, but that it was necessary to be new without being odd, often sublime and always natural, to know the human heart and to make it speak; to be a great poet without allowing any person in the piece to appear to be a poet; to know language perfectly—to speak it with purity, with continuous harmony and without rhythm ever taking anything from sense.

There was at table a man of taste and wisdom who supported the Marchioness. Afterwards they talked about tragedies. The lady asked why some tragedies can be performed but not read. The man of taste answered clearly. He said a play can be interesting and still lack merit. In a few words he showed that it is not enough to use one or two situations found in all romances, situations that always seduce the spectator. A play must be new without being odd. It must often be sublime and always natural. The writer must know the human heart and make it speak. He must be a great poet, yet never let any character seem like a poet. He must know language perfectly, speak it with purity and steady harmony, and never let rhythm take anything away from sense.

"Whoever," added he, "does not observe all these rules can produce one or two tragedies, applauded at a theatre, but he will never be counted in the ranks of good writers. There are very few good tragedies; some are idylls in dialogue, well written and well rhymed, others political reasonings which lull to sleep, or amplifications which repel; others demoniac dreams in barbarous style, interrupted in sequence, with long apostrophes to the gods, because they do not know how to speak to men, with false maxims, with bombastic commonplaces!"

"Whoever," he added, "does not follow all these rules may write one or two plays that get applause at the theater. But he will never be counted among good writers. There are very few good tragedies. Some are dialogue idylls, well written and well rhymed. Others are political lectures that put you to sleep. Or they are long, overstretched pieces that repel. Others are demonic dreams in a barbarous style. They are disjointed in sequence. They include long speeches addressed to the gods, because the authors do not know how to speak to people. They are full of false maxims and pompous clichés!"

Candide listened with attention to this discourse, and conceived a great idea of the speaker, and as the Marchioness had taken care to place him beside her, he leaned towards her and took the liberty of asking who was the man who had spoken so well.

Candide listened carefully to the speech. He came to think highly of the speaker. The Marchioness had made sure he sat beside her, so he leaned toward her. He asked who the man who had spoken so well was.

"He is a scholar," said the lady, "who does not play, whom the Abbé sometimes brings to supper; he is perfectly at home among tragedies and books, and he has written a tragedy which was hissed, and a book of which nothing has ever been seen outside his bookseller's shop excepting the copy which he dedicated to me."

"He is a scholar," the lady said. "He does not play. The Abbé sometimes brings him to supper. He is perfectly at home among tragedies and books. He wrote a tragedy that was hissed. He also wrote a book that has never been seen outside his bookseller's shop, except for the copy he dedicated to me."

"The great man!" said Candide. "He is another Pangloss!"

"The great man!" said Candide. "He is another Pangloss!"

Then, turning towards him, he said:

Then he turned to him and said:

"Sir, you think doubtless that all is for the best in the moral and physical world, and that nothing could be otherwise than it is?"

"Sir, you probably think that everything in the moral and physical world is for the best. You think nothing could be different from the way it is?"

"I, sir!" answered the scholar, "I know nothing of all that; I find that all goes awry with me; that no one knows either what is his rank, nor what is his condition, what he does nor what he ought to do; and that except supper, which is always gay, and where there appears to be enough concord, all the rest of the time is passed in impertinent quarrels; Jansenist against Molinist, Parliament against the Church, men of letters against men of letters, courtesans against courtesans, financiers against the people, wives against husbands, relatives against relatives—it is eternal war."

"I, sir!" answered the scholar. "I know nothing about any of that. I find that everything goes wrong for me. No one knows what their rank is or what their condition is. People do not know what they do or what they should do. Supper is the only exception. It is always lively and seems peaceful. The rest of the time is spent in silly quarrels. Jansenists against Molinists, Parliament against the Church, writers against writers, courtesans against courtesans, financiers against the people, wives against husbands, relatives against relatives. It is eternal war."

"I have seen the worst," Candide replied. "But a wise man, who since has had the misfortune to be hanged, taught me that all is marvellously well; these are but the shadows on a beautiful picture."

"I have seen the worst," Candide replied. "But a wise man, who was later hanged, told me that everything is marvelously well. These are only the shadows on a beautiful picture."

"Your hanged man mocked the world," said Martin. "The shadows are horrible blots."

"Your hanged man mocked the world," said Martin. "Those shadows are hideous stains."

"They are men who make the blots," said Candide, "and they cannot be dispensed with."

"They are men who make the blots," said Candide. "We cannot do without them."

"It is not their fault then," said Martin.

"It's not their fault, then," said Martin.

Most of the punters, who understood nothing of this language, drank, and Martin reasoned with the scholar, and Candide related some of his adventures to his hostess.

Most of the punters didn't understand the language. They drank. Martin reasoned with the scholar. Candide told some of his adventures to his hostess.

After supper the Marchioness took Candide into her boudoir, and made him sit upon a sofa.

After supper, the Marchioness led Candide into her boudoir. She made him sit on a sofa.

"Ah, well!" said she to him, "you love desperately Miss Cunegonde of Thunder-ten-Tronckh?"

"Ah, well," she said to him. "You're desperately in love with Miss Cunegonde of Thunder-ten-Tronckh?"

"Yes, madame," answered Candide.

"Yes, ma'am," Candide said.

The Marchioness replied to him with a tender smile:

The Marchioness answered him with a gentle smile:

"You answer me like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said, 'It is true that I have loved Miss Cunegonde, but seeing you, madame, I think I no longer love her.'"

"You answer me like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said, 'It's true I loved Miss Cunegonde. But now that I see you, madame, I think I no longer love her.'"

"Alas! madame," said Candide, "I will answer you as you wish."

"Oh dear, madam," said Candide. "I'll answer you as you wish."

"Your passion for her," said the Marchioness, "commenced by picking up her handkerchief. I wish that you would pick up my garter."

"Your passion for her," said the Marchioness, "started when you picked up her handkerchief. I wish you would pick up my garter."

"With all my heart," said Candide. And he picked it up.

"Sure," said Candide. He picked it up.

"But I wish that you would put it on," said the lady.

"But I would like you to put it on," said the lady.

And Candide put it on.

Candide put it on.

"You see," said she, "you are a foreigner. I sometimes make my Parisian lovers languish for fifteen days, but I give myself to you the first night because one must do the honours of one's country to a young man from Westphalia."

"You see," she said. "You are a foreigner. I sometimes keep my Parisian lovers waiting for fifteen days. But I give myself to you the first night. One must show the hospitality of one's country to a young man from Westphalia."

The lady having perceived two enormous diamonds upon the hands of the young foreigner praised them with such good faith that from Candide's fingers they passed to her own.

The lady noticed two enormous diamonds on the young foreigner's hands. She praised them so sincerely that they passed from Candide's fingers to hers.

Candide, returning with the Perigordian Abbé, felt some remorse in having been unfaithful to Miss Cunegonde. The Abbé sympathised in his trouble; he had had but a light part of the fifty thousand francs lost at play and of the value of the two brilliants, half given, half extorted. His design was to profit as much as he could by the advantages which the acquaintance of Candide could procure for him. He spoke much of Cunegonde, and Candide told him that he should ask forgiveness of that beautiful one for his infidelity when he should see her in Venice.

Candide, returning with the Abbé from Périgord, felt some remorse for having been unfaithful to Miss Cunegonde. The Abbé sympathized with him. He had only a small share of the fifty thousand francs lost at play, and only a small share of the value of the two brilliants. Those jewels had been half given and half extorted. He intended to profit as much as possible from his acquaintance with Candide. He talked a lot about Cunegonde. Candide said he would ask forgiveness from that beautiful woman for his unfaithfulness when he saw her in Venice.

The Abbé redoubled his politeness and attentions, and took a tender interest in all that Candide said, in all that he did, in all that he wished to do.

The Abbé became even more polite and attentive. He showed a tender interest in everything Candide said. He also paid close attention to everything Candide did and wanted to do.

"And so, sir, you have a rendezvous at Venice?"

"So, sir, you have a meeting in Venice?"

"Yes, monsieur Abbé," answered Candide. "It is absolutely necessary that I go to meet Miss Cunegonde."

"Yes, Abbé," Candide replied. "I absolutely must go see Miss Cunegonde."

And then the pleasure of talking of that which he loved induced him to relate, according to his custom, part of his adventures with the fair Westphalian.

Then he took pleasure in talking about what he loved. He began, as was his custom, to relate part of his adventures with the fair Westphalian.

"I believe," said the Abbé, "that Miss Cunegonde has a great deal of wit, and that she writes charming letters?"

"I think," said the Abbé, "that Miss Cunegonde is very witty and writes charming letters?"

"I have never received any from her," said Candide, "for being expelled from the castle on her account I had not an opportunity for writing to her. Soon after that I heard she was dead; then I found her alive; then I lost her again; and last of all, I sent an express to her two thousand five hundred leagues from here, and I wait for an answer."

"I have never received any from her," said Candide, "for I was expelled from the castle on her account, and so I had no chance to write to her. Soon after that I heard she was dead. Then I found her alive. Then I lost her again. And last of all, I sent a messenger to her two thousand five hundred leagues from here, and I am waiting for an answer."

The Abbé listened attentively, and seemed to be in a brown study. He soon took his leave of the two foreigners after a most tender embrace. The following day Candide received, on awaking, a letter couched in these terms:

The Abbé listened attentively. He seemed lost in thought. He soon said goodbye to the two foreigners after a very tender embrace. The next day, when Candide woke, he received a letter that read:

"My very dear love, for eight days I have been ill in this town. I learn that you are here. I would fly to your arms if I could but move. I was informed of your passage at Bordeaux, where I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman, who are to follow me very soon. The Governor of Buenos Ayres has taken all, but there remains to me your heart. Come! your presence will either give me life or kill me with pleasure."

"My dearest love, I have been sick in this town for eight days. I heard you are here. I would rush into your arms if I could move. I learned of your passing through Bordeaux. There I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman. They will follow me very soon. The Governor of Buenos Ayres has taken everything, but your heart remains with me. Come! Your presence will either give me life or kill me with pleasure."

This charming, this unhoped-for letter transported Candide with an inexpressible joy, and the illness of his dear Cunegonde overwhelmed him with grief. Divided between those two passions, he took his gold and his diamonds and hurried away, with Martin, to the hotel where Miss Cunegonde was lodged. He entered her room trembling, his heart palpitating, his voice sobbing; he wished to open the curtains of the bed, and asked for a light.

That charming, unexpected letter filled Candide with an indescribable joy. The news of his dear Cunegonde's illness overwhelmed him with grief. Torn between those two emotions, he grabbed his gold and diamonds. He hurried with Martin to the inn where Miss Cunegonde was staying. He entered her room trembling. His heart pounded and his voice broke. He wanted to draw back the bed curtains. He asked for a light.

"Take care what you do," said the servant-maid; "the light hurts her," and immediately she drew the curtain again.

"Be careful," said the maid. "The light hurts her." She immediately drew the curtain again.

"My dear Cunegonde," said Candide, weeping, "how are you? If you cannot see me, at least speak to me."

"My dear Cunegonde," said Candide, crying, "how are you? If you can't see me, at least speak to me."

"She cannot speak," said the maid.

"She can't speak," the maid said.

The lady then put a plump hand out from the bed, and Candide bathed it with his tears and afterwards filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag of gold upon the easy chair.

The lady then reached a plump hand out from the bed. Candide bathed it with his tears. He then filled her hand with diamonds. He left a bag of gold on the easy chair.

In the midst of these transports in came an officer, followed by the Abbé and a file of soldiers.

In the midst of this excitement, an officer entered. He was followed by the Abbé and a line of soldiers.

"There," said he, "are the two suspected foreigners," and at the same time he ordered them to be seized and carried to prison.

"There are the two suspected foreigners," he said. At the same time, he ordered them seized and taken to prison.

"Travellers are not treated thus in El Dorado," said Candide.

"Travelers are not treated like that in El Dorado," said Candide.

"I am more a Manichean now than ever," said Martin.

"I'm more of a Manichean now than ever," said Martin.

"But pray, sir, where are you going to carry us?" said Candide.

"But please, sir, where are you taking us?" said Candide.

"To a dungeon," answered the officer.

"To the dungeon," the officer said.

Martin, having recovered himself a little, judged that the lady who acted the part of Cunegonde was a cheat, that the Perigordian Abbé was a knave who had imposed upon the honest simplicity of Candide, and that the officer was another knave whom they might easily silence.

Martin, after collecting himself a little, judged that the woman playing Cunegonde was a cheat. He thought the Perigordian Abbé was a knave who had taken advantage of Candide's honest simplicity. He saw the officer as another knave whom they could easily silence.

Candide, advised by Martin and impatient to see the real Cunegonde, rather than expose himself before a court of justice, proposed to the officer to give him three small diamonds, each worth about three thousand pistoles.

Advised by Martin, Candide was impatient to see the real Cunegonde. Rather than expose himself to a court, he offered the officer three small diamonds, each worth about three thousand pistoles.

"Ah, sir," said the man with the ivory baton, "had you committed all the imaginable crimes you would be to me the most honest man in the world. Three diamonds! Each worth three thousand pistoles! Sir, instead of carrying you to jail I would lose my life to serve you. There are orders for arresting all foreigners, but leave it to me. I have a brother at Dieppe in Normandy! I'll conduct you thither, and if you have a diamond to give him he'll take as much care of you as I would."

"Ah, sir," said the man with the ivory baton. "Even if you had committed every crime imaginable, you would still be the most honest man to me. Three diamonds! Each worth three thousand pistoles. Sir, rather than take you to jail, I would give my life to help you. There are orders to arrest all foreigners, but leave that to me. I have a brother in Dieppe, Normandy. I will take you there. If you give him a diamond, he will take care of you as I would."

"And why," said Candide, "should all foreigners be arrested?"

"Why," said Candide, "should all foreigners be arrested?"

"It is," the Perigordian Abbé then made answer, "because a poor beggar of the country of Atrébatie²⁸ heard some foolish things said. This induced him to commit a parricide, not such as that of 1610 in the month of May,²⁹ but such as that of 1594 in the month of December,³⁰ and such as others which have been committed in other years and other months by other poor devils who had heard nonsense spoken."

"It is," the Perigordian Abbé replied, "because a poor beggar from the country of Atrébatie²⁸ heard some foolish things. That made him commit a parricide. Not like the one in May 1610²⁹, but like the one in December 1594³⁰. And like others that were committed in other years and months by other poor devils who had heard nonsense."

The officer then explained what the Abbé meant.

The officer then explained what the Abbé meant.

"Ah, the monsters!" cried Candide. "What horrors among a people who dance and sing! Is there no way of getting quickly out of this country where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen no bears in my country, but men I have beheld nowhere except in El Dorado. In the name of God, sir, conduct me to Venice, where I am to await Miss Cunegonde."

"Ah, the monsters!" cried Candide. "What horrors among a people who dance and sing! Is there no way to get out of this country quickly, where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen no bears in my country. As for men, I have only seen them in El Dorado. In the name of God, sir, take me to Venice. There I will wait for Miss Cunegonde."

"I can conduct you no further than lower Normandy," said the officer.

"I can take you no farther than Lower Normandy," said the officer.

Immediately he ordered his irons to be struck off, acknowledged himself mistaken, sent away his men, set out with Candide and Martin for Dieppe, and left them in the care of his brother.

He immediately ordered his irons removed. He admitted he was wrong. He sent his men away. He set out for Dieppe with Candide and Martin. He left them in his brother's care.

There was then a small Dutch ship in the harbour. The Norman, who by the virtue of three more diamonds had become the most subservient of men, put Candide and his attendants on board a vessel that was just ready to set sail for Portsmouth in England.

A small Dutch ship was then in the harbour. The Norman had become the most subservient of men after receiving three more diamonds. He put Candide and his attendants on a vessel that was just ready to sail for Portsmouth, England.

This was not the way to Venice, but Candide thought he had made his way out of hell, and reckoned that he would soon have an opportunity for resuming his journey.

This was not the route to Venice. But Candide thought he had escaped from hell. He expected he would soon have a chance to resume his journey.