Candide | Page 9

Candide, amazed at all he had suffered and still more with the charity
of the old woman, wished to kiss her hand.
"It is not my hand you must kiss," said the old woman; "I shall be back
to-morrow. Anoint yourself with the pomatum, eat and sleep."
Candide, notwithstanding so many disasters, ate and slept. The next
morning the old woman brought him his breakfast, looked at his back,
and rubbed it herself with another ointment: in like manner she brought
him his dinner; and at night she returned with his supper. The day
following she went through the very same ceremonies.
"Who are you?" said Candide; "who has inspired you with so much
goodness? What return can I make you?"

The good woman made no answer; she returned in the evening, but
brought no supper.
"Come with me," she said, "and say nothing."
She took him by the arm, and walked with him about a quarter of a
mile into the country; they arrived at a lonely house, surrounded with
gardens and canals. The old woman knocked at a little door, it opened,
she led Candide up a private staircase into a small apartment richly
furnished. She left him on a brocaded sofa, shut the door and went
away. Candide thought himself in a dream; indeed, that he had been
dreaming unluckily all his life, and that the present moment was the
only agreeable part of it all.
The old woman returned very soon, supporting with difficulty a
trembling woman of a majestic figure, brilliant with jewels, and
covered with a veil.
"Take off that veil," said the old woman to Candide.
The young man approaches, he raises the veil with a timid hand. Oh!
what a moment! what surprise! he believes he beholds Miss Cunegonde?
he really sees her! it is herself! His strength fails him, he cannot utter a
word, but drops at her feet. Cunegonde falls upon the sofa. The old
woman supplies a smelling bottle; they come to themselves and recover
their speech. As they began with broken accents, with questions and
answers interchangeably interrupted with sighs, with tears, and cries.
The old woman desired they would make less noise and then she left
them to themselves.
"What, is it you?" said Candide, "you live? I find you again in Portugal?
then you have not been ravished? then they did not rip open your belly
as Doctor Pangloss informed me?"
"Yes, they did," said the beautiful Cunegonde; "but those two accidents
are not always mortal."
"But were your father and mother killed?"

"It is but too true," answered Cunegonde, in tears.
"And your brother?"
"My brother also was killed."
"And why are you in Portugal? and how did you know of my being
here? and by what strange adventure did you contrive to bring me to
this house?"
"I will tell you all that," replied the lady, "but first of all let me know
your history, since the innocent kiss you gave me and the kicks which
you received."
Candide respectfully obeyed her, and though he was still in a surprise,
though his voice was feeble and trembling, though his back still pained
him, yet he gave her a most ingenuous account of everything that had
befallen him since the moment of their separation. Cunegonde lifted up
her eyes to heaven; shed tears upon hearing of the death of the good
Anabaptist and of Pangloss; after which she spoke as follows to
Candide, who did not lose a word and devoured her with his eyes.

VIII
THE HISTORY OF CUNEGONDE.
"I was in bed and fast asleep when it pleased God to send the
Bulgarians to our delightful castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh; they slew
my father and brother, and cut my mother in pieces. A tall Bulgarian,
six feet high, perceiving that I had fainted away at this sight, began to
ravish me; this made me recover; I regained my senses, I cried, I
struggled, I bit, I scratched, I wanted to tear out the tall Bulgarian's
eyes--not knowing that what happened at my father's house was the
usual practice of war. The brute gave me a cut in the left side with his
hanger, and the mark is still upon me."
"Ah! I hope I shall see it," said honest Candide.

"You shall," said Cunegonde, "but let us continue."
"Do so," replied Candide.
Thus she resumed the thread of her story:
"A Bulgarian captain came in, saw me all bleeding, and the soldier not
in the least disconcerted. The captain flew into a passion at the
disrespectful behaviour of the brute, and slew him on my body. He
ordered my wounds to be dressed, and took me to his quarters as a
prisoner of war. I washed the few shirts that he had, I did his cooking;