At the bottom of his heart Candide has no wish to marry Cunegonde. The Baron's impertinence decides him, and she presses so hard that he cannot go from his word. Pangloss writes a memorial. Martin is for the sea. Cacambo has the Baron delivered back to the galley captain and sent toward Rome. Diamonds from the Incas ought to have been enough. The Jews take what remains. Cunegonde grows uglier and more peevish. The old woman is infirm and more fretful. Cacambo works the garden and curses his destiny. Pangloss despairs at not shining in a university. Martin bears it. Boats under the windows carry officials into banishment and then carry their replacements out in turn. When they do not dispute, time hangs so heavily that the old woman asks which is worse: the whole catalogue of their disasters, or staying here with nothing to do.
Martin concludes that a person is born to distracting inquietude or lethargic disgust. Candide will not quite agree and will not quite deny. Pangloss owns that he has always suffered horribly, yet he still asserts that everything went wonderfully well, though he no longer believes it. Then Paquette and Friar Giroflée land in extreme misery. The three thousand piastres are gone. They have quarrelled, been thrown into gaol, and escaped. Giroflée has become Turk. Paquette has continued her trade and made nothing of it. Martin says he foresaw that the presents would only make them more miserable, and that Candide, who rolled in millions, is not happier than these two. Pangloss reminds Paquette that she cost him the tip of his nose, an eye, and an ear. They walk to a famous Dervish.
Pangloss asks why so strange an animal as man was made. The Dervish asks whether it is his business. Candide names horrible evil. When his highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he trouble his head whether the mice on board are at their ease? Pangloss asks what they must do. Hold your tongue, says the Dervish. Pangloss still hopes to reason about the best of possible worlds. The Dervish shuts the door in their faces. On the way home they see a good old man taking the air under an orange bower. Pangloss asks the name of the strangled Mufti. The old man does not know it. He never troubles his head about Constantinople. He contents himself with sending there the fruits of the garden which he cultivates.
He invites them in. His children serve coffee. Candide assumes a vast estate. The old man has twenty acres. He and his children cultivate them. Labour preserves them from weariness, vice, and want. On the way home Candide says this Turk seems preferable to the six kings at Venice. Pangloss answers with a catalogue of murdered kings. Candide cuts him off. He knows also that they must cultivate their garden. Martin says, let us work without disputing; it is the only way to render life tolerable. The little society takes up the design. Cunegonde becomes an excellent pastry cook. Paquette embroiders. The old woman looks after the linen. Giroflée makes a good joiner and becomes a very honest man. Pangloss tries one last concatenation: without the kick, the Inquisition, America, the Baron, and the lost sheep, they would not be eating preserved citrons and pistachio-nuts. All that is very well, says Candide, but let us cultivate our garden.
