The old woman led Candide to a hovel, provided ointment for his wounds, gave him food and drink, and arranged to get for him a suit of clothes and an acceptable bed. Candide found himself overwhelmed by her charity, and he endeavored to kiss her hand. But it was not her hand that he should kiss, he was informed enigmatically. She voiced a short prayer for his well being and promised to return on the next day.
Despite his misfortunes, Candide was able to eat and sleep. In the morning, the old woman reappeared with breakfast for him. For the next two days she attended him. Although Candide repeatedly asked her who she was and why she should be so kind to him, the woman would not enlighten him. Toward evening, she returned and told him to come with her in silence. She took him to an isolated country house surrounded by gardens and canals. In response to her knock, a little door was opened, and Candide followed her up a hidden staircase and into a gilded boudoir. She then left him. Candide was nonplused; for a moment he considered that his whole life had been a wicked dream and that the present moment was a wonderful dream.
Once more the old woman came back, this time assisting into the room a trembling woman, majestic in bearing, who gleamed with precious stones. Her face was veiled, and the old woman commanded Candide to lift the veil. Behold, the strange woman turned out to be his adored Cunégonde. Speechless in their surprise, both swooned and then were revived by the useful old woman, who had the tact to leave them to themselves.
Candide had many questions to ask Cunégonde. He learned that she had been ravished and wounded, but she obviously had survived the ordeal. Her father, mother, and brother, however, had been killed. Before she would complete her story, she insisted that Candide tell his, and she listened to it most sympathetically.
Cunégonde's story was quite as melodramatic as Candide's. She provided the details of the Bulgarians' attack on the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh and the slaughter of her father, mother, and brother. She herself had been repeatedly raped and then stabbed with a knife in the side. Candide expressed the hope that he would be allowed to see the scar. "You shall," replied Cunégonde, and then she resumed her story.
A Bulgarian captain had appeared, took compassion on the wounded girl, killed the guilty soldier, had her wounds dressed, and took her to his quarters as prisoner-of-war. She performed menial work for the captain, who found her to be quite attractive. And Cunégonde conceded that he was not without his attractions but added that he had little philosophy since he had not been schooled by Doctor Pangloss. Having lost both his money and his taste for the young lady after three months, the captain sold her to an amorous Jew named Don Issachar, a man who traded in Holland and Portugal. But Cunégonde successfully resisted his efforts to win her favors, and to tame her he had brought her to this country house, which rivaled the Westphalian castle in splendor.
At Mass one day, the Grand Inquisitor himself took much interest in her, and he sent word that he had secret matters to discuss with her. At his palace, when Cunégonde identified herself as a lady of high rank, he reproached her for being in the possession of an Israelite. On the Grand Inquisitor's behalf, Don Issachar was asked to yield her to that high-ranking official. But the Israelite was not without his influence, for he was, among other things, court banker. He refused to comply. The Grand Inquisitor's passion for Cunégonde would not let him give up the attempt to gain her for himself. Finally, Don Issachar agreed that the two men would share her and the house. The Jew was to have her on Monday and Wednesday, his rival to have her on Sunday. The design for living did not make for complete tranquility; but, more important, so far Cunégonde had succeeded in resisting both men, whose love became more ardent for that very reason.
It was to prevent earthquakes and to frighten Don Issachar that the Inquisitor had decided to "celebrate" an auto-da-fé, Cunégonde explained. At that assembly, she was an honored guest and was among those served refreshments between Mass and the executions. She was appalled to witness the burnings and was utterly horrified to see first the hanging of Pangloss and then the flogging of the naked Candide. She found herself too weak to cry out in protest. One thought possessed her: Doctor Pangloss had deceived her when he had called this the best of all possible worlds.
It was Cunégonde who had instructed the old woman to find her lover and bring him to the house in the wood. She expressed her joy at meeting him again, and the two sat down to supper. But soon Don Issachar arrived. It was Sunday, and he had come to enjoy his rights.
