“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 Cunégonde 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 Cunégonde, 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.