Candide, returning with the Perigordian Abbe, felt some remorse in having been unfaithful to Miss Cunegonde. The Abbe sympathised in his trouble; he had had but a light part of the fifty thousand francs lost at play and of the value of the two brilliants, half given, half extorted. His design was to profit as much as he could by the advantages which the acquaintance of Candide could procure for him. He spoke much of Cunegonde, and Candide told him that he should ask forgiveness of that beautiful one for his infidelity when he should see her in Venice. The Abbe redoubled his politeness and attentions, and took a tender interest in all that Candide said, in all that he did, in all that he wished to do. "And so, sir, you have a rendezvous at Venice?" "Yes, monsieur Abbe," answered Candide. "It is absolutely necessary that I go to meet Miss Cunegonde." And then the pleasure of talking of that which he loved induced him to relate, according to his custom, part of his adventures with the fair Westphalian. "I believe," said the Abbe, "that Miss Cunegonde has a great deal of wit, and that she writes charming letters?" "I have never received any from her," said Candide, "for being expelled from the castle on her account I had not an opportunity for writing to her. Soon after that I heard she was dead; then I found her alive; then I lost her again; and last of all, I sent an express to her two thousand five hundred leagues from here, and I wait for an answer." The Abbe listened attentively, and seemed to be in a brown study. He soon took his leave of the two foreigners after a most tender embrace. The following day Candide received, on awaking, a letter couched in these terms: "My very dear love, for eight days I have been ill in this town. I learn that you are here. I would fly to your arms if I could but move. I was informed of your passage at Bordeaux, where I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman, who are to follow me very soon. The Governor of Buenos Ayres has taken all, but there remains to me your heart. Come! your presence will either give me life or kill me with pleasure." This charming, this unhoped-for letter transported Candide with an inexpressible joy, and the illness of his dear Cunegonde overwhelmed him with grief. Divided between those two passions, he took his gold and his diamonds and hurried away, with Martin, to the hotel where Miss Cunegonde was lodged. He entered her room trembling, his heart palpitating, his voice sobbing; he wished to open the curtains of the bed, and asked for a light. "Take care what you do," said the servant-maid; "the light hurts her," and immediately she drew the curtain again. "My dear Cunegonde," said Candide, weeping, "how are you? If you cannot see me, at least speak to me." "She cannot speak," said the maid. The lady then put a plump hand out from the bed, and Candide bathed it with his tears and afterwards filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag of gold upon the easy chair.