第 二十二 章 · WHAT HAPPENED IN FRANCE TO CANDIDE AND MARTIN.

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.

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 _detour_ 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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

Among those who did him the honours of the town was a little Abbe 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 Comedie, 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:

"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]

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

"Five or six thousand."

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

"Fifteen or sixteen," replied the other.

"What a number!" said Martin.

Candide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a

somewhat insipid tragedy[23] sometimes acted.

"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."

The Perigordian Abbe offered to introduce him. Candide, brought up in

Germany, asked what was the etiquette, and how they treated queens of

England in France.

"It is necessary to make distinctions," said the Abbe. "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]

"Queens on the highway!" said Candide.

"Yes, truly," said Martin, "the Abbe 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."

"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.

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.

In the midst of these transports in came an officer, followed by the

Abbe and a file 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.

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

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

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

"To a dungeon," answered the officer.

Martin, having recovered himself a little, judged that the lady who

acted the part of Cunegonde was a cheat, that the Perigordian Abbe was a

knave who had imposed upon the honest simplicity of Candide, and that

the officer was another knave whom they might 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.

"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."

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

"It is," the Perigordian Abbe then made answer, "because a poor beggar

of the country of Atrebatie[28] 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."

The officer then explained what the Abbe 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."

"I can conduct you no further 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.

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.

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.

XXIII