“It seems you are a German?” said the Jesuit to him in that language.
“Yes, Reverend Father,” answered Candide.
As they pronounced these words, they looked at each other with great amazement, and with an emotion that neither could conceal.
“From what part of Germany do you come?” said the Jesuit.
“From the dirty province of Westphalia,” answered Candide: “I was born in the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh.”
“Oh heavens! is it possible?” said the Commandant.
“What a miracle!” cried Candide.
“Can it be you?” said the Commandant.
On this they both retired a few steps backwards, then embraced, and let fall a shower of tears.
“Is it you then, Reverend Father? You are the brother of the fair Cunegund? you who were slain by the Bulgarians! you the Baron’s son! you a Jesuit in Paraguay! I must confess this is a strange world we live in. O Pangloss! Pangloss! what joy would this have given you, if you had not been hanged.”
The Commandant dismissed the negro slaves, and the Paraguayans who were presenting them with liquor in crystal goblets. He returned thanks to God and St. Ignatius a thousand times; he clasped Candide in his arms, and both their faces were bathed in tears.
“You will be more surprised, more affected, more transported,” said Candide, “when I tell you that Miss Cunegund, your sister, whose belly was supposed to have been ripped open, is in perfect health.”
“Where?”
“In your neighbourhood, with the Governor of Buenos Ayres; and I myself was going to fight against you.”
Every word they uttered during this long conversation was productive of some new matter of astonishment. Their souls fluttered on their tongues, listened in their ears, and sparkled in their eyes. Like true Germans, they continued a long time at table, waiting for the Reverend Father Provincial; and the Commandant spoke to his dear Candide as follows:
