Candide
Bourgogne, which ought to trouble her much, for she thought nobly."
"That was very uncivil," 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."
"Is it true that they always laugh in Paris?" said Candide.
"Yes," said the Abbe, "but it means nothing, for they complain of
everything with great 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?"
"He is a bad character," answered the Abbe, "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_."
"What is a _folliculaire_?" said Candide.
"It is," said the Abbe, "a pamphleteer--a Freron."[25]
Thus Candide, Martin, and the Perigordian conversed on the staircase,
while watching every one go out 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."
The Abbe was not the man to approach Miss Clairon, who saw 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."
Candide, who was naturally curious, let himself be taken to this lady's
house, at the end of the Faubourg St. Honore. 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 Abbe, Candide and
Martin entered; no one rose, no one saluted them, no one looked at them;
all were profoundly occupied with their cards.
"The Baroness of Thunder-ten-Tronckh was more polite," said Candide.
However, the Abbe 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:--
"Some 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.
"Have you seen," said the Perigordian Abbe, "the romance of Sieur
Gauchat, 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."
"And the _Melanges_ of Archdeacon Trublet,[27] what do you say of that?"
said the Abbe.
"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."
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.
"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!"
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.
"He is a scholar," said the lady, "who does not play, whom the Abbe
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."
"The great man!" said Candide. "He is another Pangloss!"
Then, turning towards him, he 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?"
"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 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."
"Your hanged man mocked the world," said Martin. "The shadows are
horrible blots."
"They are men who make the blots," said Candide, "and they cannot be
dispensed with."
"It is 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.
After supper the Marchioness took Candide into her boudoir, and made him
sit upon a sofa.
"Ah, well!" said she to him, "you love desperately Miss Cunegonde of
Thunder-ten-Tronckh?"
"Yes, madame," answered Candide.
The Marchioness replied to him with a tender 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.'"
"Alas! madame," said Candide, "I will 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."
"With all my heart," said Candide. And he picked it up.
"But I wish that you would put it on," said the lady.
And 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."
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.
Candide, returning with the Perigordian Abbe, felt some remorse in
having been unfaithful to Miss Cunegonde. The Abbe 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.
The Abbe 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.
"And so, sir, you have a rendezvous at Venice?"
"Yes, monsieur Abbe," answered Candide. "It is absolutely necessary
that I go to meet 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.
"I believe," said the Abbe, "that Miss Cunegonde has a great deal of
wit, and that she 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."
The Abbe 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:
"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."
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.
"Take care what you do," said the servant-maid; "the light hurts her,"
and immediately she drew the curtain again.
"My dear Cunegonde," said Candide, weeping, "how are you? If you cannot
see me, at least speak to me."
"She cannot speak," said the maid.