“‘One night when I was fast asleep in bed, the Bulgars (by the grace of God) arrived at

our lovely Thunder-ten-tronckh and slaughtered my parents. They cut my father’s throat and my
brother’s, and made mincemeat of my mother. A great lout of a Bulgear, six foot tall, noticed
that I had fainted at the sight of this butchery, and set about ravishing me. That was enough to
bring me round. I recovered my senses and cried for help, struggling, biting, and scratching as
hard as I could. I wanted to tear the fellow’s eyes out. You see, I didn’t appreciate that what was
happening in the father’s house was in no way unusual. The brute gave me a wound in my left
thigh, and I still bear the scar.’
‘Oh, how I should like to see it!’ exclaimed Candide, innocently.
‘You shall,’ said Cunégonde; ‘but first let me go on with my story.’
‘By all means,’ said Candide.
Cunégonde continued: ‘A Bulgar captain came in. He noticed that I was bleeding and that
the soldier made no attempt to move. This lack of respect for an officer so enraged the captain
that he slew the brute across my body. He then had my wound dressed and took me to his
quarters as a prisoner of war. I used to wash his shirts for him (he hadn’t many) and cook his
meals. There is no denying that he thought me pretty as well as useful, and I admit that he was
quite handsome himself. His skin was certainly both white and soft, but apart from that I can say
little for him. He had not much intelligence and little understanding of philosophy: it was quite
clear that he had not been brought up by Dr. Pangloss. At the end of three months he had no
money left, and as he had grown tired of me he sold me to Don Issachar, a Jew with business
connexions in Holland and Portugal, who had a weakness for women. This Jew was much
attached to my person, but he could not get his way with me, for I was more successful at
resisting him than the Bulgar soldier. A woman of honour can be ravished once, but the
experience is tonic for her virtue’” (41).