“Indeed but they did,” replied Miss Cunegund; “but these two accidents do not always prove mortal.”
“But were your father and mother killed?”
“Alas!” answered she, “it is but too true!” and she wept.
“And your brother?”
“And my brother also.”
“And how did you come to Portugal? And how did you know of my being here? And by what strange adventure did you contrive to have me brought into this house?”
“I will tell you all,” replied the lady, “but first you must acquaint me with all that has befallen you since the innocent kiss you gave me, and the rude kicking you received.”
Candide, with the greatest submission, obeyed her, and though he was still wrapped in amazement, though his voice was low and tremulous, though his back pained him, yet he gave her a most ingenuous account of everything that had befallen him since the moment of their separation. Cunegund, with her eyes uplifted to heaven, shed tears when he related the death of the good Anabaptist James, and of Pangloss; after which, she thus related her adventures to Candide, who lost not one syllable she uttered, and seemed to devour her with his eyes all the time she was speaking.
