Upon their arrival at Venice, Candide went to search for Cacambo at every inn and coffee-house, and among all the ladies of pleasure, but to no purpose. He sent every day to inquire on all the ships that came in. But there was no news of Cacambo.
When they arrived in Venice, Candide searched for Cacambo. He checked every inn and coffeehouse and looked among all the women of pleasure. It was of no use. He sent inquiries every day to ask about every ship that arrived. There was still no news of Cacambo.
"What!" said he to Martin, "I have had time to voyage from Surinam to Bordeaux, to go from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to coast along Portugal and Spain, to cross the whole Mediterranean, to spend some months, and yet the beautiful Cunegonde has not arrived! Instead of her I have only met a Parisian wench and a Perigordian Abbé. Cunegonde is dead without doubt, and there is nothing for me but to die. Alas! how much better it would have been for me to have remained in the paradise of El Dorado than to come back to this cursed Europe! You are in the right, my dear Martin: all is misery and illusion."
"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 sail along Portugal and Spain. To cross the whole Mediterranean. To spend several months. And yet the beautiful Cunegonde has not arrived! Instead of her I have only met a Parisian woman and a Périgord abbé. Cunegonde is surely dead. Nothing is left for me but to die. Alas! It would have been much better to stay in the paradise of El Dorado than to return to this cursed Europe! You are right, my dear Martin. All is misery and illusion."
He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to see the opera, nor any of the other diversions of the Carnival; nay, he was proof against the temptations of all the ladies.
He sank into deep melancholy. He did not go to the opera or to any of the Carnival's other amusements. In fact, he was immune to the temptations of all the ladies.
"You are in truth very simple," said Martin to him, "if you imagine that a mongrel valet, who has five or six millions in his pocket, will go to the other end of the world to seek your mistress and bring her to you to Venice. If he find her, he will keep her to himself; if he do not find her he will get another. I advise you to forget your valet Cacambo and your mistress Cunegonde."
"You are truly very naive," Martin said to him, "if you imagine that a mixed-race valet with five or six millions in his pocket will go to the other end of the world to look for your mistress and bring her to you in Venice. If he finds her, he will keep her for himself. If he does not find her, he will get another. I advise you to forget your valet Cacambo and your mistress Cunegonde."
Martin was not consoling. Candide's melancholy increased; and Martin continued to prove to him that there was very little virtue or happiness upon earth, except perhaps in El Dorado, where nobody could gain admittance.
Martin was not consoling. Candide's melancholy deepened. Martin kept arguing that there was very little virtue or happiness on earth. Maybe only in El Dorado, but no one could enter there.
While they were disputing on this important subject and waiting for Cunegonde, Candide saw a young Theatin friar in St. Mark's Piazza, holding a girl on his arm. The Theatin looked fresh coloured, plump, and vigorous; his eyes were sparkling, his air assured, his look lofty, and his step bold. The girl was very pretty, and sang; she looked amorously at her Theatin, and from time to time pinched his fat cheeks.
While they argued about this important matter and waited for Cunegonde, Candide saw a young Theatin friar in St. Mark's Piazza. He had a girl on his arm. The Theatin looked fresh-colored, plump, and vigorous. His eyes sparkled. He had a confident air, a proud look, and a bold step. The girl was very pretty and sang. She looked at her Theatin with affection, and from time to time she pinched his plump cheeks.
"At least you will allow me," said Candide to Martin, "that these two are happy. Hitherto I have met with none but unfortunate people in the whole habitable globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this pair, I would venture to lay a wager that they are very happy."
"At least you'll admit," said Candide to Martin, "that these two are happy. Until now I have met only unfortunate people across the whole world. The only exception was El Dorado. But as for this pair, I would bet they are very happy."
"I lay you they are not," said Martin.
"I'll bet they are not," said Martin.
"We need only ask them to dine with us," said Candide, "and you will see whether I am mistaken."
"We only need to invite them to dinner," said Candide. "Then you will see if I am wrong."
Immediately he accosted them, presented his compliments, and invited them to his inn to eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges, and caviare, and to drink some Montepulciano, Lachrymæ Christi, Cyprus and Samos wine. The girl blushed, the Theatin accepted the invitation and she followed him, casting her eyes on Candide with confusion and surprise, and dropping a few tears. No sooner had she set foot in Candide's apartment than she cried out:
He immediately approached them and offered his compliments. He invited them to his inn to eat macaroni with Lombard partridges and caviar. He also offered Montepulciano, Lachrymæ Christi, Cyprus, and Samos wines. The girl blushed. The Theatin accepted the invitation. She followed him, looking at Candide with surprise and confusion, and she shed a few tears. As soon as she stepped into Candide's room, she cried out:
"Ah! Mr. Candide does not know Paquette again."
"Ah! Mr. Candide does not recognize Paquette anymore."
Candide had not viewed her as yet with attention, his thoughts being entirely taken up with Cunegonde; but recollecting her as she spoke.
Candide had not yet looked closely at her. His thoughts were entirely on Cunegonde. But he remembered her as she spoke.
"Alas!" said he, "my poor child, it is you who reduced Doctor Pangloss to the beautiful condition in which I saw him?"
"Alas!" he said. "My poor child. Are you the one who reduced Doctor Pangloss to that 'beautiful' condition I saw him in?"
"Alas! it was I, sir, indeed," answered Paquette. "I see that you have heard all. I have been informed of the frightful disasters that befell the family of my lady Baroness, and the fair Cunegonde. I swear to you that my fate has been scarcely less sad. I was very innocent when you knew me. A Grey Friar, who was my confessor, easily seduced me. The consequences were terrible. I was obliged to quit the castle some time after the Baron had sent you away with kicks on the backside. If a famous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I should have died. For some time I was this surgeon's mistress, merely out of gratitude. His wife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me every day unmercifully; she was a fury. The surgeon was one of the ugliest of men, and I the most wretched of women, to be continually beaten for a man I did not love. You know, sir, what a dangerous thing it is for an ill-natured woman to be married to a doctor. Incensed at the behaviour of his wife, he one day gave her so effectual a remedy to cure her of a slight cold, that she died two hours after, in most horrid convulsions. The wife's relations prosecuted the husband; he took flight, and I was thrown into jail. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been good-looking. The judge set me free, on condition that he succeeded the surgeon. I was soon supplanted by a rival, turned out of doors quite destitute, and obliged to continue this abominable trade, which appears so pleasant to you men, while to us women it is the utmost abyss of misery. I have come to exercise the profession at Venice. Ah! sir, if you could only imagine what it is to be obliged to caress indifferently an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, an abbé, to be exposed to abuse and insults; to be often reduced to borrowing a petticoat, only to go and have it raised by a disagreeable man; to be robbed by one of what one has earned from another; to be subject to the extortions of the officers of justice; and to have in prospect only a frightful old age, a hospital, and a dung-hill; you would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world."
"Alas, it was me, sir," answered Paquette. "I see you have heard everything. I was told about the terrible disasters that hit the Baroness's family and the fair Cunegonde. I swear my fate has been hardly less sad. I was very innocent when you knew me. A Grey friar who was my confessor seduced me easily. The consequences were terrible. I had to leave the castle some time after the Baron sent you away with kicks to the backside. If a famous surgeon had not taken pity on me, I would have died. For a time I was the surgeon's mistress, out of simple gratitude. His wife, mad with jealousy, beat me every day without mercy. She was a fury. The surgeon was one of the ugliest men. I was the most wretched of women to be constantly beaten for a man I did not love. You know, sir, how dangerous it is when an ill-natured woman is married to a doctor. Angry at his wife's behavior, he one day gave her such a strong remedy for a slight cold that she died two hours later in horrible convulsions. The wife's relatives prosecuted the husband. He fled, and I was thrown into jail. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been good-looking. The judge set me free on condition that he succeeded the surgeon. Soon a rival supplanted me. I was turned out into the street, destitute, and forced to continue this abominable trade. It may seem pleasant to you men, but for us women it is the very bottom of misery. I have come to practice the profession in Venice. Ah, sir, if you could imagine what it is. To be forced to caress, without choice, an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, or an abbé. To be exposed to abuse and insults. To be often reduced to borrowing a petticoat, only to go and have it lifted by an unpleasant man. To be robbed by one man of what another has paid me. To be at the mercy of extortion by the officers of justice. And to face only a terrible old age, a hospital, and a dung heap. You would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world."
Commenting upon this passage, M. Sarcey says admirably: "All is there! In those ten lines Voltaire has gathered all the griefs and all the terrors of these creatures; the picture is admirable for its truth and power! But do you not feel the pity and sympathy of the painter? Here irony becomes sad, and in a way an avenger. Voltaire cries out with horror against the society which throws some of its members into such an abyss. He has his 'Bartholomew' fever; we tremble with him through contagion."
Paquette thus opened her heart to honest Candide, in the presence of Martin, who said to his friend:
So Paquette confided in honest Candide while Martin listened. Martin then said to his friend:
"You see that already I have won half the wager."
"You see that I have already won half the wager."
Friar Giroflée stayed in the dining-room, and drank a glass or two of wine while he was waiting for dinner.
Friar Giroflée stayed in the dining room. He drank a glass or two of wine while waiting for dinner.
"But," said Candide to Paquette, "you looked so gay and content when I met you; you sang and you behaved so lovingly to the Theatin, that you seemed to me as happy as you pretend to be now the reverse."
"But," said Candide to Paquette, "you looked so cheerful and content when I met you. You sang and behaved so lovingly toward the Theatine. You seemed as happy then as you now claim to be unhappy."
"Ah! sir," answered Paquette, "this is one of the miseries of the trade. Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer; yet to-day I must put on good humour to please a friar."
"Oh, sir," Paquette said, "this is one of the hardships of my job. Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer. Today I have to be cheerful to please a friar."
Candide wanted no more convincing; he owned that Martin was in the right. They sat down to table with Paquette and the Theatin; the repast was entertaining; and towards the end they conversed with all confidence.
Candide needed no more convincing. He admitted that Martin was right. They sat down at the table with Paquette and the Theatin. The meal was pleasant. Toward the end, they spoke openly and with complete confidence.
"Father," said Candide to the Friar, "you appear to me to enjoy a state that all the world might envy; the flower of health shines in your face, your expression makes plain your happiness; you have a very pretty girl for your recreation, and you seem well satisfied with your state as a Theatin."
"Father," Candide said to the friar, "you seem to live a life everyone might envy. The bloom of health shines on your face. Your expression clearly shows your happiness. You have a very pretty girl to amuse you. You seem quite satisfied with your role as a Theatin."
"My faith, sir," said Friar Giroflée, "I wish that all the Theatins were at the bottom of the sea. I have been tempted a hundred times to set fire to the convent, and go and become a Turk. My parents forced me at the age of fifteen to put on this detestable habit, to increase the fortune of a cursed elder brother, whom God confound. Jealousy, discord, and fury, dwell in the convent. It is true I have preached a few bad sermons that have brought me in a little money, of which the prior stole half, while the rest serves to maintain my girls; but when I return at night to the monastery, I am ready to dash my head against the walls of the dormitory; and all my fellows are in the same case."
"Honestly, sir," said Friar Giroflée, "I wish all the Theatins were at the bottom of the sea. I have been tempted a hundred times to set fire to the convent and leave to become a Turk. My parents forced me at fifteen to put on this hateful habit to increase the fortune of a cursed older brother, may God curse him. Jealousy, discord, and rage live in the convent. It's true I preached a few poor sermons that earned me a little money. The prior stole half, and the rest supports my girls. But when I return to the monastery at night, I feel like smashing my head against the dormitory walls. All my fellow monks are in the same situation."
Martin turned towards Candide with his usual coolness.
Martin turned to Candide with his usual coolness.
"Well," said he, "have I not won the whole wager?"
"Well," he said, "haven't I won the whole bet?"
Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette, and one thousand to Friar Giroflée.
Candide gave Paquette two thousand piastres. He gave Friar Giroflée one thousand.
"I'll answer for it," said he, "that with this they will be happy."
"I guarantee it," he said. "They will be happy with this."
"I do not believe it at all," said Martin; "you will, perhaps, with these piastres only render them the more unhappy."
"I do not believe it at all," said Martin. "You might only make them more unhappy with these piastres."
"Let that be as it may," said Candide, "but one thing consoles me. I see that we often meet with those whom we expected never to see more; so that, perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Paquette, it may well be that I shall also find Cunegonde."
"Whatever the case," said Candide, "one thing comforts me. I see we often meet people we thought we would never see again. So, since I found my red sheep and Paquette, perhaps I will also find Cunegonde."
"I wish," said Martin, "she may one day make you very happy; but I doubt it very much."
"I wish," said Martin, "that she may one day make you very happy. But I doubt it very much."
"You are very hard of belief," said Candide.
"You are very slow to believe," said Candide.
"I have lived," said Martin.
"I've lived," Martin said.
"You see those gondoliers," said Candide, "are they not perpetually singing?"
"Do you see those gondoliers?" said Candide. "Aren't they always singing?"
"You do not see them," said Martin, "at home with their wives and brats. The Doge has his troubles, the gondoliers have theirs. It is true that, all things considered, the life of a gondolier is preferable to that of a Doge; but I believe the difference to be so trifling that it is not worth the trouble of examining."
"You don't see them at home with their wives and children," Martin said. "The Doge has his troubles. The gondoliers have theirs. All things considered, a gondolier's life is preferable to a Doge's. But I think the difference is so slight it's not worth examining."
"People talk," said Candide, "of the Senator Pococurante, who lives in that fine palace on the Brenta, where he entertains foreigners in the politest manner. They pretend that this man has never felt any uneasiness."
"People talk," said Candide, "about Senator Pococurante. He lives in that fine palace on the Brenta. There he entertains foreigners in the politest way. They claim this man has never felt any uneasiness."
"I should be glad to see such a rarity," said Martin.
"I'd be glad to see such a rarity," said Martin.
Candide immediately sent to ask the Lord Pococurante permission to wait upon him the next day.
Candide immediately sent someone to ask the Lord Pococurante for permission to visit him the next day.