After Paquette had been forced to leave the service of the baroness, she became successively the mistress of a doctor who killed his jealous wife, and of a judge, who had freed her from prison, where she had been remanded as a possible accomplice to the murder. A rival soon took her place, and she was obliged to become a common prostitute, the profession she was following in Venice. She dwelt at some length on the degradation she had to endure with only a frightful old age to look forward to. Martin remarked that he had certainly won half of his wager. Candide asked Paquette why it was, in view of her sad lot, that she appeared so gay, so happy. "That is still another of the miseries of the trade," she replied. "Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer, and today I have to appear in a good humor to please a monk." Candide then conceded that Martin was right. He turned to the monk, who, he said, seemed to enjoy a destiny that everyone must envy and who appeared content with his status as a Theatine. But Friar Giroflée (for that was his name) protested that he wished all Theatines were at the bottom of the sea. He himself would have liked to burn the monastery and turn Turk. A younger son, his parents had forced him to leave a greater fortune to the older brother whom he detested and to become a monk. Jealousy, discord, rage characterized life in the monastery. Oh, to be sure, a few bad sermons had brought him some money, half of which the prior stole from him, the rest serving him to keep girls.
Now Candide had to admit that Martin had won the entire wager. He gave Paquette 2,000 piasters and Giroflée 1,000 — sure that the money would make both happy. But Martin was not so sure: perhaps the money would lead them to greater unhappiness. Observing the fact that he often found again people whom he had been sure were lost forever, Candide now believed that there was a good chance of his finding Cunégonde. Martin remained pessimistic; for him happiness in this world was a very scarce commodity. Candide called his attention to the singing gondoliers; surely they were happy. Let Candide see them at home, said Martin, with their wives and brats of children; then he would think otherwise. He conceded that the lot of a gondolier was probably a better one than that of the Doge (the city's chief magistrate). Candide then said that the Venetians spoke of Senator Pococurante, who lived in a palace on the Brenta and who received foreign visitors graciously, as one who was reputed to be a man who never knew grief. Martin expressed a desire to see such a rarity, and Candide immediately arranged for them to visit the senator on the next day.
