The old woman, never without a plan, suggested that they buy a small farm in the neighborhood and await a better destiny. Poor Cunégonde, who did not know that she had grown ugly, reminded Candide of his promise to marry her. "I shall never endure such baseness on her part or insolence on Candide's," exclaimed the baron. He could not bear the thought that his sister's children would be barred from the aristocracy. Although Cunégonde threw herself at his feet and wept bitter tears, he was adamant. Candide called him the maddest of madmen and reminded him of all he had done for his sister. The baron replied, "You may kill me again, but you shall not marry my sister while I am alive."
Candide really had no desire to marry Cunégonde, but the baron's arrogance and Cunégonde's pleading made him determined to do so. He consulted Pangloss, Martin, and the faithful Cacambo. Pangloss prepared a fine memoir by which he proved to his own satisfaction that the baron had no right to interfere, that she could make a morganatic marriage. Martin thought that the baron should be thrown into the sea. Cacambo decided that the baron should be returned to galleys and then be sent by the first ship to the Father General in Rome. All but Cunégonde, who had been told nothing, approved of the plan. So they had the pleasure of trapping a Jesuit and punishing a German baron for excessive pride.
It would seem that Candide, married to Cunégonde and living with two philosophers and the prudent Cacambo, would now lead a pleasant life, but he had nothing left but the little farm. His wife became uglier and more shrewish every day. The old woman, now an invalid, became more intolerable than Cunégonde. Nor was Cacambo happy. He was overworked and bewailed his fate. Pangloss was disappointed because he was not flourishing at some German university. As for Martin, his pessimism was more pronounced than ever, but he accepted his lot patiently.
