01/11/2007

Voltaire

Zadig

The Mystery of Fate:

An Oriental Tale

Table of Contents

Publication Information

Approval

Dedicatory Letter

Chapter I. The Blind of One Eye.

Chapter II. The Nose.

Chapter III. The Dog and the Horse.

Chapter IV. The Envious Man.

Chapter V. The Generous.

Chapter VI. The Minister.

Chapter VII. The Disputes And The Audiences.

Chapter VIII. Jealousy.

Chapter IX. The Woman-Beater.

Chapter X. Slavery.

Chapter XI. The Funeral Pile.

Chapter XII. The Supper.

Chapter XIII. The Rendezvous; The Dance; Blue Eyes.

Chapter XIV. The Robber.

Chapter XV. The Fisherman.

Chapter XVI. The Basilisk.

Chapter XVII. The Combats.

Chapter XVIII. The Hermit.

Chapter XIX. The Enigmas.

Publication Information

François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire:

Zadig (1747)

Extracted from Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire: A Contemporary Version. Volume: 2.

Translated by William F. Fleming.

Publisher: E. R. DuMont. Place of Publication: Paris. Publication Year: 1901

This translation has been revised. Some missing passages and the Dedicatory Letter were restored and translated by the transcriber.

Approval

I, the undersigned, who pass as a scholar and a man of wit, have read this manuscript which, despite myself, I find curious, amusing, moral, philosophical and likely to please even those who dislike novels. Therefore, I have condemned it and have assured the Lord Chamberlain that it is a detestable performance.

Dedicatory Letter

To the Sultana Sheraa, from Sadi

The 18th day of the month of Scheval, in the year of the Hegira, 837.

Joy of all eyes, perturber of hearts, light of the soul: I do not kiss the dust from your feet because you seldom walk, save occasionally on Persian carpets or on roses.

I offer you this translation of the book of an ancient sage who, having the blessing of leisure, beguiled his time by writing the history of Zadig: a work which is more useful than it seems.

I pray you to read and judge it. Though you are in the springtime of your life, though pleasures seek you out, though you are beautiful, and as talented as you are lovely, though you are praised from dusk to dawn, and consequently might be thought devoid of judgement, you have both wisdom and. a refined taste. I have heard you reasoning better than old dervishes with long beards and pointed hats. You are discreet but not distrustful; you are gentle but not weak; you are intelligently charitable; you love your friends and make no enemies. Your wit is never cruel; you neither speak nor do evil; though both are in your power. In short, your soul is as peerless as your beauty. In addition, your understanding of philosophy leads me to suppose that you will enjoy the sage’s work more than any other lady.

It was originally written in ancient Chaldaean; a language neither of us understands. Then it was translated into Arabic for the amusement of the famous Sultan Ouloug-beb. This was at the time when the Thousand and One Nights, the Thousand and One Days and similar works were being composed by the Arabs and the Persians. The Sultan preferred reading Zadig; the Sultana favoured the Arabian Nights. “How can you prefer tales which have neither rhyme nor reason?” asked the Sultan. “That is exactly why I love them,” replied his Sultana.

I flatter myself that you will not resemble her, but are a true Ouloug. I also hope that when you are tired of general conversation, which resembles the Arabian Nights, except that it is less amusing, that I may have the honour of a minute’s rational discourse with you. Had you been Thalestris in the Days of Alexander, the son of Philip; had you been the Queen of Sheba, in the Reign of Solomon, those kings would have travelled to see you.

I pray the Heavenly powers that your pleasures be unalloyed; your beauty lasting and your happiness everlasting.

Sadi

Chapter I. The Blind of One Eye.

There lived at Babylon, in the reign of King Moabdar, a young man, named Zadig, of a good natural disposition, strengthened and improved by education. Though rich and young, he had learned to moderate his passions. He had nothing stiff or affected in his behaviour. He did not pretend to examine every action by the strict rules of reason, but was always ready to make proper allowances for the weakness of mankind. It was a matter of surprise that, notwithstanding his sprightly wit, he never exposed by his raillery those vague, incoherent, and noisy discourses; those rash censures, ignorant decisions, coarse jests, and all that empty jingle of words which at Babylon went by the name of conversation. He had learned, in the first book of Zoroaster, that self-love is a foot-ball swelled with wind, from which, when pierced, the most terrible tempests issue forth. Above all, Zadig never boasted of his conquests among the women, nor affected to entertain a contemptible opinion of the fair sex. He was generous, and was never afraid of obliging the ungrateful; remembering the grand precept of Zoroaster, “When thou eatest, give to the dogs, should they even bite thee.” He was as wise as it is possible for a man to be; for he sought to live with the wise. Instructed in the sciences of the ancient Chaldaeans, he understood the principles of natural philosophy, such as they were then supposed to be; and knew as much of metaphysics as has ever been known in any age, that is, little or nothing at all. He was firmly persuaded, notwithstanding the new philosophy of the times, that the year consisted of three hundred and sixty-five days and six hours, and that the sun was the centre of the solar system. When the principal magi told him, with a haughty and contemptuous air, that his sentiments were of a dangerous tendency, and that it was to be an enemy to the state to believe that the sun revolved around its own axis, and that the year had twelve months, he held his tongue with great modesty and meekness.

Possessed as he was of great riches, and consequently of many friends, blessed with a good constitution, a handsome figure, a mind just and moderate, and a heart noble and sincere, he fondly imagined that he might easily be happy. He was going to be married to Semira, who, in point of beauty, birth and fortune, was the first match in Babylon. He had a real and virtuous affection for this lady, and she loved him with the most passionate fondness.

The happy moment had almost arrived that was to unite them forever in the bands of wedlock, when, happening to take a walk together toward one of the gates of Babylon, under the palm-trees that adorn the banks of the Euphrates, they saw some men approaching, armed with sabres and arrows. These were the attendants of young Orcan, the minister’s nephew, whom his uncle’s creatures had flattered into an opinion that he might do everything with impunity. He had none of the graces nor virtues of Zadig; but thinking himself a much more accomplished man, he was enraged to find that the other was preferred before him. This jealousy, which was merely the effect of his vanity, made him imagine that he was desperately in love with Semira; and accordingly he resolved to carry her off. The ravishers seized her; in the violence of the outrage they wounded her, and made the blood flow from a person, the sight of whom would have softened the tigers of Mount Imaus. She pierced the heavens with her complaints. She cried out: “My dear husband! they tear me from the man I adore!”

Regardless of her own danger, she was only concerned for the fate of her dear Zadig, who, in the meantime, defended himself with all the strength that courage and love could inspire. Assisted only by two faithful slaves, he put the cowardly ravishers to flight, and carried home Semira, insensible and bloody as she was.

“O, Zadig,” said she, on opening her eyes, and beholding her deliverer, “I loved thee formerly as my intended husband. I now love thee as the preserver of my honour and my life!”

Never was heart more deeply affected than that of Semira. Never did a more charming mouth express more moving sentiments, in those glowing words inspired by a sense of the greatest of all favours, and by the most tender transports of a lawful passion. Her wound was slight, and was soon cured. Zadig was more dangerously wounded. An arrow had pierced him near his eye, and penetrated to a considerable depth. Semira wearied heaven with her prayers for the recovery of her lover. Her eyes were constantly bathed in tears; she anxiously waited the happy moment when those of Zadig should be able to meet hers; but an abscess, growing on the wounded eye, gave everything to fear. A messenger was immediately despatched to Memphis, for the great physician, Hermes, who came with a numerous retinue. He visited the patient, and declared that he would lose his eye. He even foretold the day and hour when this fatal event would happen.

“Had it been the right eye,” said he, “I could easily have cured it; but the wounds of the left eye are incurable.”

All Babylon lamented the fate of Zadig, and admired the profound knowledge of Hermes. In two days the abscess broke of its own accord, and Zadig was perfectly cured. Hermes wrote a book, to prove that it ought not to have been cured. Zadig did not read it; but, as soon as he was able to go abroad, he went to pay a visit to her in whom all his hopes of happiness were centred, and for whose sake alone he wished to have eyes. Semira had been in the country for three days past. He learned on the road that that fine lady, having openly declared that she had an unconquerable aversion to one-eyed men, had the night before given her hand to Orcan. At this news he fell speechless to the ground. His sorrows brought him almost to the brink of the grave. He was long indisposed; but reason at last got the better of his affliction, and the severity of his fate served even to console him.

“Since,” said he, “I have suffered so much from the cruel caprice of a woman educated at court, I must now think of marrying the daughter of a citizen.”

He pitched upon Azora, a lady of the greatest prudence, and of the best family in town. He married her, and lived with her for three months in all the delights of the most tender union. He only observed that she had a little levity; and was too apt to find that those young men who had the most handsome persons were likewise possessed of the most wit and virtue.

Chapter II. The Nose.

One morning Azora returned from a walk in a terrible passion, and uttering the most violent exclamations.

“What aileth thee,” said he, “my dear spouse? What is it that can thus have disturbed thee?”

“Alas!” said she, “thou wouldst have been as much enraged as I am, hadst thou seen what I have just beheld. I have been to comfort the young widow Cosrou, who, within these two days, hath raised a tomb to her young husband, near the rivulet that washes the skirts of this meadow. She vowed to heaven, in the bitterness of her grief, to remain at this tomb whilst the water of the rivulet should continue to run near it.”

“Well,” said Zadig, “she is an excellent woman, and loved her husband with the most sincere affection.”

“Ah!” replied Azora, “didst thou but know in what she was employed when I went to wait upon her!”

“In what, pray tell me, beautiful Azora?”

“She was turning the course of the rivulet!”

Azora broke out into such long invectives, and loaded the young widow with such bitter reproaches, that Zadig was far from being pleased with this ostentation of virtue.

Zadig had a friend named Cador; one of those young- men in whom his wife discovered more probity and merit than in others. He made him his confidant, and secured his fidelity as much as possible by a considerable present. Azora, having passed two days with a friend in the country, returned home on the third. The servants told her, with tears in their eyes, that her husband died suddenly the night before; that they were afraid to send her an account of this mournful event; and that they had just been depositing his corpse in the tomb of his ancestors, at the end of the garden. She wept; she tore her hair, and swore she would follow him to the grave. In the evening, Cador begged leave to wait upon her, and joined his tears with hers. Next day they wept less, and dined together. Cador told her that his friend had left him the greater part of his estate; and that he should think himself extremely happy in sharing his fortune with her. The lady wept, fell into a passion, and at last became more mild and gentle. They sat longer at supper than at dinner. They now talked with greater confidence. Azora praised the deceased; but owned that he had many failings from which Cador was free.

During supper Cador complained of a violent pain in his side. The lady, greatly concerned, and eager to serve him, caused all kinds of essences to be brought, with which she anointed him, to try if some of them might not possibly ease him of his pain. She lamented that the great Hermes was not still in Babylon. She even condescended to touch the side in which Cador felt such exquisite pain.

“Art thou subject to this cruel disorder?” said she to him, with a compassionate air.

“It sometimes brings me,” replied Cador, “to the brink of the grave; and there is but one remedy that can give me relief and that is, to apply to my side the nose of a man who is lately dead.”

“A strange remedy, indeed!” said Azora.

“Not more strange,” replied he “than the satchels of Arnou, against the apoplexy.”

This reason, added to the great merit of the young man, at last determined the lady.

“After all,” says she, “when my husband shall cross the bridge Tchinavar in his journey to the other world, the angel Asrael will not refuse him a passage because his nose is a. little shorter in the second life than it was in the first.”

She then took a razor, went to her husband’s tomb, bedewed it with her tears, and drew near to cut off the nose of Zadig, whom she found extended at full length in the tomb. Zadig arose, holding his nose with one hand, and putting back the razor with the other.

“Madam,” said he, “don’t exclaim so violently against the widow Cosrou. The project of cutting off my nose is equal to that of turning the course of a rivulet.”

Chapter III. The Dog and the Horse.

Zadig found by experience that the first month of marriage, as it is written in the book of Zend, is the moon of honey, and that the second is the moon of wormwood. He was some time after obliged to repudiate Azora, who became too difficult to be pleased; and he then sought for happiness in the study of nature.

“No man,” said he, “can be happier than a philosopher, who reads in this great book which God hath placed before our eyes. The truths he discovers are his own; he- nourishes and exalts his soul; he lives in peace; he fears nothing from men; and his tender spouse will not come to cut off his nose.”

Possessed of these ideas, he retired to a country house on the banks of the Euphrates. There he did not employ himself in calculating how many inches of water flow in a second of time under the arches of a bridge, or whether there fell a cube-lint of rain in the month of the mouse more than in the month of the sheep. He never dreamed of making silk of cobwebs, or porcelain of broken bottles; but he chiefly studied the properties of plants and animals, and soon acquired a sagacity that made him discover a thousand differences where other men see nothing but uniformity.

One day, as he was walking near a little wood, he saw one of the queen’s eunuchs running toward him, followed by several officers, who appeared to be in great perplexity, and who ran to and fro like men distracted, eagerly searching for something they had lost, of great value.

“Young man,” said the first eunuch, “hast thou seen the queen’s dog?”

“It is a bitch,” replied Zadig, with great modesty, “and not a dog.”

“Thou art in the right,” returned the first eunuch.

“It is a very small she-spaniel,” added Zadig; she has lately whelped; she limps on the left fore foot, and has very long ears.”

“Thou hast seen her,” said the first eunuch, quite out of breath.

“No,” replied Zadig, “I have not seen her, nor did I so much as know that the queen had a bitch.”

Exactly at the same time, by one of the common freaks of fortune, the finest horse in the king’s stable had escaped from the jockey in the plains of Babylon. The principal huntsman, and all the other officers, ran after him with as much eagerness and anxiety as the first eunuch had done after the bitch. The principal huntsman addressed himself to Zadig, and asked him if he had not seen the king’s horse passing by.

“He is the fleetest horse in the king’s stable,” replied Zadig; “he is five feet high, with very small hoofs, and a tail three feet and a half in length; the studs on his bit are gold, of twenty-three carats, and his shoes are silver of eleven pennyweights.”

“What way did he take? where is he?” demanded the chief huntsman.,

“I have not seen him,” replied Zadig, “and never heard talk of him before.”

The principal huntsman and the first eunuch never doubted but that Zadig had stolen the king’s horse and the queen’s bitch. They therefore had him conducted before the assembly of the grand desterham, who condemned him to the knout, and to spend the rest of his days in Siberia. Hardly was the sentence passed, when the horse and the bitch were both found. The judges were reduced to the disagreeable necessity of reversing their sentence; but they condemned Zadig to pay four hundred ounces of gold for having said that he had not seen what he had seen. This fine he was obliged to pay, after which he was permitted to plead his cause before the council of the grand desterham, when he spoke to the following effect:

“Ye stars of justice, abyss of sciences, mirrors of truth, who have the weight of lead, the hardness of iron, the splendour of the diamond, and many of the properties of gold; since I am permitted to speak before this august assembly, I swear to you by Oromazes, that I have never seen the queen’s respectable bitch, nor the sacred horse of the king of kings. The truth of the matter is as follows: I was walking toward the little wood, where I afterward met the venerable eunuch and the most illustrious chief huntsman. I observed on the sand the traces of an animal, and could easily perceive them to be those of a little dog. The light and long furrows impressed on little eminences of sand between the marks of the paws plainly discovered that it was a bitch, whose dugs were hanging down, and that therefore she must have whelped a few days before. Other traces of a different kind, that always appeared to have gently brushed the surface of the sand near the marks of the fore feet showed me that she had very long ears; and as I remarked that there was always a slighter impression made on the sand by one foot than by the other three, I found that the bitch of our august queen was a little lame, if I may be allowed the expression.

With regard to the horse of the king of kings, you will be pleased to know that, walking in the lanes of this wood, I observed the marks of a horse’s shoes, all at equal distances. “This must be a horse,’ said I to myself, ‘that gallops excellently.’ The dust on the trees in a narrow road, that was but seven feet wide, was a little brushed off, at the distance of three feet and a half from the middle of the road. The horse said I, ‘has a tail three feet and a half long, which, being whisked to the right and left, has swept away the dust.’ I observed under the trees, that formed an arbour five feet in height, that the leaves of the branches were newly fallen, from whence I inferred that the horse had touched them, and that he must, therefore, be five feet high. As to his bit, it must be gold of twenty-three carats, for he had rubbed its bosses against a stone which I knew to be a touchstone, and which I have tried. In a word, from a mark made by his shoes on flints of another kind, I concluded that he was shod with silver eleven deniers fine.”

All the judges admired Zadig for his acute and profound discernment. The news of this speech was carried even to the king and queen. Nothing was talked of but Zadig in the antechambers, the chambers, and the cabinet; and though many of the magi were of opinion that he ought to be burnt as a sorcerer, the king ordered his officers to restore him the four hundred ounces of gold which he had been obliged to pay. The register, the attorneys, and bailiffs went to his house with great formality to carry him back his four hundred ounces. They only retained three hundred and ninety-eight of them to defray the expenses of justice; and then their servants demanded their fees.

Zadig saw how extremely dangerous it sometimes is to appear too knowing, and therefore resolved that on the next occasion of the like nature he would not tell what he had seen.

Such an opportunity soon offered. A prisoner of state made his escape and passed under the windows of Zadig’s house. Zadig was examined, and made no answer. But it was proved that he had looked at the prisoner from this window. For this crime he was condemned to pay five hundred ounces of gold; and, according to the polite custom of Babylon, he thanked his judges for their indulgence.

“Great God!” said he to himself, “what a misfortune it is to walk in a wood through which the queen’s bitch or the king’s horse has passed! how dangerous to look out at a window! and how difficult to be happy in this life!”

Chapter IV. The Envious Man.

Zadig resolved to comfort himself by philosophy and friendship for the evils he had suffered from fortune. He had in the suburbs of Babylon a house elegantly furnished, in which he assembled all the arts and all the pleasures worthy the pursuit of a gentleman. In the morning his library was open to the learned. In the evening his table was surrounded by good company. But he soon found what very dangerous guests these men of letters are. A warm dispute arose on one of Zoroaster’s laws, which forbids the eating of a griffin.

“Why,” said some of them, “prohibit the eating of a griffin, if there is no such animal in nature?”

“There must necessarily be such an animal,” said the others, “since Zoroaster forbids us to eat it.”

Zadig would fain have reconciled them by saying:

“If there are no griffins, we cannot possibly eat them; and thus, either way, we shall obey Zoroaster.”

A learned man, who had composed thirteen volumes on the properties of the griffin, and was, besides, the chief theurgite, hasted away to accuse Zadig before one of the principal magi, named Yebor, the greatest blockhead, and therefore the greatest fanatic, among the Chaldaeans. This man would have empaled Zadig to do honour to the sun, and would then have recited the breviary of Zoroaster with greater satisfaction. The friend Cador (a friend is better than a hundred priests) went to Yebor, and said to him:

“Long live the sun and the griffins; beware of punishing Zadig; he is a saint; he has griffins in his inner court, and does not eat them; and his accuser is a heretic, who dares to maintain that rabbits have cloven feet, and are not unclean.”

“Well,” said Yebor, shaking his bald pate, “we must empale Zadig for having thought contemptuously of griffins, and the other party for having spoken disrespectfully of rabbits.”

Cador hushed up the matter by appealing to a lady in waiting, by whom he had had a child, and who had great influence in the college of the magi. Nobody was empaled. This lenity occasioned a great murmuring among some of the doctors, who from thence predicted the fall of Babylon.

“Upon what does happiness depend?” said Zadig; I am persecuted by everything in the world, even on account of beings that have no existence.”

He cursed those men of learning and resolved for the future to live with none but good company.

He assembled at his house the most worthy men and the most beautiful ladies of Babylon. He gave them delicious suppers, often preceded by concerts of music, and always animated by polite conversation, from which he knew how to banish that affectation of wit which is the surest method of preventing it entirely, and of spoiling the pleasure of the most agreeable society. Neither the choice of his friends, nor that of the dishes, was made by vanity, for in everything he preferred the substance to the shadow; and by these means he procured that real respect to which he did not aspire.

Opposite to his house lived one Arimazes, a man whose deformed countenance was but a faint picture of his still more deformed mind. His heart was a mixture of malice, pride, and envy. Having never been able to succeed in any of his undertakings, he revenged himself on all around him by loading them with the blackest calumnies. Rich as he was, he found it difficult to procure a set of flatterers. The rattling of the chariots that entered Zadig’s court in the evening filled him with uneasiness; the sound of his praises enraged him still more. He sometimes went to Zadig’s house, and sat down at table without being desired, where he spoiled all the pleasure of the company, as the harpies are said to infect the viands they touch.

It happened that one day he took it in his head to give an entertainment to a lady, who, instead of accepting it, went to sup with Zadig. At another time, as he was talking with Zadig at court, a minister of state came up to them and invited Zadig to supper, without inviting Arimazes. The most implacable hatred has seldom a more solid foundation. This man, who in Babylon was called the envious, resolved to ruin Zadig because he was called the happy. “The opportunity of doing mischief occurs a hundred times in a day, and that of doing good but once a year,” as saith the wise Zoroaster.

The envious man went to see Zadig, who was walking in his garden with two friends and a lady, to whom he said many gallant things, without any other intention than that of saying them. The conversation turned upon a war which the king had just brought to a happy conclusion against the prince of Hircania, his vassal. Zadig, who had signalized his courage in this short war, bestowed great praises on the king, but greater still on the lady. He took out his pocket-book, and wrote four lines extempore, which he gave to this amiable person to read. His friends begged they might see them; but modesty, or rather, a well-regulated self-love, would not allow him to grant their request. He knew that extemporary verses are never approved by any but the person in whose honour they are written. He therefore tore in two the leaf on which he had written them, and threw both the pieces into a thicket of rose-bushes, where the rest of the company sought for them in vain. A slight shower, falling soon after, obliged them to return to the house.

The envious man, who remained in the garden, continued to search, till at last he found a piece of the leaf. It had been torn in such a manner that each half of a line formed complete sense, and even a verse of a shorter measure; but what was still more surprising, these short verses were found to contain the most injurious reflections on the king. They ran thus:

To flagrant crimes

His crown he owes,

To peaceful times

The worst of foes.

The envious man was now happy for the first time in his life. He had it in his power to ruin a person of virtue and merit. Filled with this fiendlike joy, he found means to convey to the king the satire written by the hand of Zadig, who was immediately thrown into prison, together with the lady and Zadig’s two friends.

His trial was soon finished, without his being permitted to speak for himself. As he was going to receive his sentence, the envious man threw himself in his way and told him, with a loud voice, that his verses were good for nothing. Zadig did not value himself on being a good poet; but it filled him with inexpressible concern to find that he was condemned for high treason; and that the fair lady and his two friends were confined in prison for a crime of which they were not guilty. He was not allowed to speak, because his writing spoke for him. Such was the law of Babylon. Accordingly he was conducted to the place of execution through an immense crowd of spectators, who durst not venture to express their pity for him, but who carefully examined his countenance to see if he died with a good grace. His relations alone were inconsolable, for they could not succeed to his estate. Three-fourths of his wealth was confiscated into the king’s treasury, and the other fourth was given to the envious man.

Just as he was preparing for death, the king’s parrot flew from its cage, and alighted on a rosebush in Zadig’s garden. A peach had been blown thither by the wind, from a neighbouring tree, and had fallen on a piece of the written leaf of the pocket-book, to which it stuck. The bird carried off the peach and the paper, and laid them on the king’s knee. The king took up the paper with great eagerness, and read the words, which formed no sense, and seemed to be the endings of verses. He loved poetry, and there is always some mercy to be expected from a prince of that disposition. The adventure of the parrot caused him to reflect. The queen, who remembered what had been written on the piece of Zadig’s pocket-book, ordered it to be brought. They compared the two pieces together, and found them to tally exactly. They then read the verses as Zadig had written them.

Tyrants are prone to flagrant crimes;

To clemency his crown he owes;

To concord and to peaceful times

Love only is the worst of foes.

The king gave immediate orders that Zadig should be brought before him, and that his two friends and the lady should be set at liberty. Zadig fell prostrate on the ground before the king and queen, humbly begged their pardon for having made such bad verses, and spoke with so much propriety, wit, and good sense, that their majesties desired they might see him again. He did himself that honour, and insinuated himself still farther into their good graces. They gave him all the wealth of the envious man, but Zadig restored him back the whole of it, and this instance of generosity gave no other pleasure to the envious man than that of having preserved his estate. The king’s esteem for Zadig increased every day. He admitted him into all his parties of pleasure, and consulted him in all affairs of state. From that time the queen began to regard him with an eye of tenderness, that might one day prove dangerous to herself, to the king, her august consort, to Zadig, and to the kingdom in general. Zadig now began to think that happiness was not so unattainable as he had formerly imagined.

Chapter V. The Generous.

The time had now arrived for celebrating a grand festival, which returned every five years. It was a custom in Babylon solemnly to declare, at the end of every five years, which of the citizens had performed the most generous action. The grandees and the magi were the judges. The first satrap, who was charged with the government of the city, published the most noble actions that had happened under his administration. The competition was decided by votes, and the king pronounced the award. People came to this solemnity from the extremities of the earth. The conqueror received from the monarch’s hands a golden cup, adorned with precious stones, his majesty at the same time making him this compliment: “Receive this reward of thy generosity, and may the gods grant me many subjects like to thee.”

This memorable day having come, the king appeared on his throne, surrounded by the grandees, the magi, and the deputies of all the nations that came to these games, where glory was acquired, not by the swiftness of horses, nor by strength of body, but by virtue. The first satrap recited, with an audible voice, such actions as might entitle the authors of them to this invaluable prize. He did not mention the greatness of soul with which Zadig had restored to the envious man his fortune, because it was not judged to be an action worthy of disputing the prize.

He first presented a judge, who, having made a citizen lose a considerable cause by a mistake, for which, after all, he was not accountable, had given him the whole of his own estate, which was just equal to what the other had lost.

He next produced a young man who, being desperately in love with a lady whom he was going to marry, had yielded her up to his friend, whose passion for her had almost brought him to the brink of the grave, and at the same time had given him the lady’s fortune.

He afterwards produced a soldier, who, in the wars of Hircania, had given a still more noble instance of generosity. A party of the enemy having seized his mistress, he fought in her defence with great intrepidity. At that very instant he was informed that another party, at the distance of a few paces, were carrying off his mother. He therefore left his mistress, with tears in his eyes, and flew to the assistance of his mother. At last he returned to the dear object of his love, and found her expiring. He was just going to plunge his sword into his own bosom, but his mother remonstrating against such a desperate deed, and telling him that he was the only support of her life, he had the courage to endure to live.

The judges were inclined to give the prize to the soldier. But the king took up the discourse, and said:

“The action of the soldier, and those of the other two, are doubtless praiseworthy, but they have nothing in them surprising. Yesterday Zadig performed an action that filled me with wonder. I had a few days before disgraced Coreb, my minister and favourite. I complained of him in the most violent and bitter terms; all my courtiers assured me that I was too gentle, and seemed to vie with each other in speaking ill of Coreb. I asked Zadig what he thought of him, and he had the courage to commend him. I have read in our histories of many people who have atoned for an error by the surrender of their fortune; who have resigned a mistress, or preferred a mother to the object of their affection; but never before did I hear of a courtier who spoke favourably of a disgraced minister that laboured under the displeasure of his sovereign. I give to each of those whose generous actions have just been recited, twenty thousand pieces of gold; but the cup I give to Zadig.”

“May it please thy majesty,” said Zadig, “thyself alone deservest the cup. Thou hast performed an action of all others the most uncommon and meritorious, since, notwithstanding thy being a powerful king, thou wast not offended at thy slave when he presumed to oppose thy passion.”

The king and Zadig were equally the object of admiration. The judge who had given his estate to his client; the lover who had resigned his mistress to his friend, and the soldier who had preferred the safety of his mother to that of his mistress received the king’s presents, and saw their names enrolled in the catalogue of generous men. Zadig had the cup, and the king acquired the reputation of a good prince, which he did not long enjoy. The day was celebrated by feasts, which lasted longer than the law enjoined, and the memory of it is still preserved in Asia. Zadig said: “Now I am happy at last.” But he was deceived.

Chapter VI. The Minister.

The king had lost his first minister, and chose Zadig to supply his place. All the ladies in Babylon applauded the choice, for, since the foundation of the empire, there had never been such a young minister. But all the courtiers were filled with jealousy and vexation. The envious man, in particular, was troubled with a spitting of blood, and a prodigious inflammation in his nose. Zadig, having thanked the king and queen for their goodness, went likewise to thank the parrot.

“Beautiful bird,” said he, “‘tis thou that hast saved my life and made me first minister. The queen’s bitch and the king’s horse did me a great deal of mischief, but thou hast done me much good. Upon such slender threads as these do the fates of mortals hang!” “But,” added he, “this happiness perhaps will vanish very soon.”

“Soon,” replied the parrot.

Zadig was somewhat startled at this word. But as he was a good natural philosopher, and did not believe parrots to be prophets, he quickly recovered his spirits, and resolved to execute his duty to the best of his power.

He made every one feel the sacred authority of the laws, but no one felt the weight of his dignity. He never checked the deliberations of the divan, and every vizier might give his opinion without fear of incurring the minister’s displeasure. When he gave judgment, it was not he that gave it; it was the law; the rigor of which, however, whenever it was too severe, he always took care to soften; and when laws were wanting, the equity of his decisions was such as might easily have made them pass for those of Zoroaster.

It is to him that the nations are indebted for this grand principle, to wit, that it is better to run the risk of sparing the guilty than to condemn the innocent. He imagined that laws were made as well to secure the people from the suffering of injuries as to restrain them from the commission of crimes. His chief talent consisted in discovering the truth, which all men seek to obscure. This great talent he put in practice from the very beginning of his administration.

A famous merchant of Babylon, who died in the Indies, divided his estate equally between his two sons, after having disposed of their sister in marriage, and left a present of thirty thousand pieces of gold to that son who should be found to have loved him best. The eldest raised a tomb to his memory; the youngest increased his sister’s portion, by giving her a part of his inheritance. Every one said that the eldest son loved his father best, and the youngest his sister, and that the thirty thousand pieces belonged to the eldest.

Zadig sent for both of them, the one after the other. To the eldest he said:

“Thy father is not dead, but has survived his last illness, and is returning to Babylon.”

“God be praised,” replied the young man; “but his tomb cost me a considerable sum.”

Zadig afterwards repeated the same story to the youngest son.

“God be praised,” said he; I will go and restore to my father all that I have; but I could wish that he would leave my sister what I have given her.”

“Thou shalt restore nothing,” replied Zadig, and thou shalt have the thirty thousand pieces, for thou art the son who loves his father best.”

A young woman, possessed of a handsome fortune, had given a promise of marriage to two magi, and, after having received instruction from both, eventually she found herself with child. Both were both desirous of marrying her.

“I will take for my husband,” said she, the one who has given me the honour of presenting the Empire with a new subject.”

“It was my good work,” said the first magus.

“No, that honour is mine, “said the other.

“Very well. In that case I will recognise as father,” said she, “the man who can give the best education to my beloved child.”

A short while afterwards, she was brought to bed with a son. The two magi contended who should bring him up, and the cause was carried before Zadig. Zadig summoned the two magi to attend him.

“What will you teach your pupil?” said he to the first.

“I will teach him,” said the doctor, “the eight parts of speech, logic, astrology, pneumatics, what is meant by substance and accident, abstract and concrete, the doctrine of the monads, and the pre-established harmony.”

“For my part,” said the second, “I will endeavour to give him a sense of justice, and to make him worthy the friendship of good men.”

Zadig then cried:

“Whether thou art the child’s father or not, thou shalt have his mother.”

Chapter VII. The Disputes And The Audiences.

In this manner he daily discovered the subtlety of his genius and the goodness of his heart. The people at once admired and loved him. He passed for the happiest man in the world. The whole empire resounded with his name. All the ladies ogled him. All the men praised him for his justice. The learned regarded him as an oracle, and even the priests confessed that he knew more than the old arch-magus, Yebor. They were now so far from prosecuting him on account of the griffins, that they believed nothing but what he thought credible.

There had continued at Babylon, for the space of fifteen hundred years, a violent contest, that had divided the empire into two sects. The one pretended that they ought to enter the temple of Mithras with the left foot foremost; the other held this custom in detestation, and always entered with the right foot first. The people waited with great impatience for the day on which the solemn feast of the sacred fire was to be celebrated, to see which sect Zadig would favour. All the world had their eyes fixed on his two feet, and the whole city was in the utmost suspense and perturbation. Zadig jumped into the temple with his feet joined together, and afterwards proved, in an eloquent discourse, that the Sovereign of heaven and earth, who accepteth not the persons of men, maketh no distinction between the right foot and the left foot. The envious man and his wife alleged that his discourse was not figurative enough, and that he did not make the rocks and mountains dance with sufficient agility.

“He is dry,” said they, “and void of genius. He does not make the sea to fly, and stars to fall, nor the sun to melt like wax. He has not the true oriental style.”

Zadig contented himself with having the style of reason. All the world favoured him, not because he was in the right road, or followed the dictates of reason, or was a man of real merit, but because he was prime vizier.

He terminated with the same happy address the grand dispute between the black and the white magi. The former maintained that it was the height of impiety to pray to God with the face turned toward the east in winter; the latter asserted that God abhorred the prayers of those who turned toward the west in summer. Zadig decreed that every man should be allowed to turn as he pleased.

Thus he found out the happy secret of finishing all affairs, whether of a private or a public nature, in the morning. The rest of the day he employed in superintending and promoting the embellishments of Babylon. He exhibited tragedies that drew tears from the eyes of the spectators, and comedies that shook their sides with laughter, a custom which had long been disused, and which his good taste now induced him to revive. He never affected to be more knowing in the polite arts than the artists themselves. He encouraged them by rewards and honours, and was never jealous of their talents. In the evening the king was highly entertained with his conversation, and the queen still more.

“Great minister,” said the king.

“Amiable minister,” said the queen; and both of them added: “It would have been a great loss to the state had such a man been hanged.”

Never was a minister so obliged to give so many audiences to ladies. Most of them came to talk about affairs they didn’t have, in order to have one with him. The wife of Arimazes, the envious man, was one of the first. She swore by Mithras, by Zenda-Vesta and by the sacred fire that she abominated the conduct of her jealous and brutal husband. She even gave Zadig to understand that the gods were punishing her husband by denying him the precious effects of the sacred flame — the only way in which a man can be immortal. She concluded by letting her garter fall. Zadig, with his usual courtesy, picked it up, but failed to replace it on the lady’s knee. This small error, if it was one, was the cause of the most horrible misfortunes. Zadig wasn’t thinking but Lady Arimazes was thinking a great deal.

Other ladies presented themselves every day. The secret annals of Babylon claim that once he succumbed; though was surprised to find no pleasure in the act and that he embraced his mistress with an absent air. The lady to whom he was paying these absent-minded attentions was a lady-in-waiting to queen Astarte. She consoled herself with the thought that he was prodigiously preoccupied with affairs of state while making love. It happened that Zadig, at one of those moments when most people either don’t say a word, or else cry out some sacred words, inadvertently ejaculated, “The Queen!” The Babylonian lady believed that he had returned to his senses at last, and had cried, “My Queen!” But Zadig, already much distracted, called out Astarte’s name. Owing to the happy circumstances, the lady interpreted this to her own advantage; imagining him to say, “You are more beautiful than Queen Astarte.”

She left Zadig’s seraglio bearing very beautiful gifts and went to tell her tale to Lady Arimazes who was her intimate friend. This jealous lady was cruelly piqued at Zadig’s preference. “He didn’t even replace my garter,” she said. “I won’t wear it any more.”

“Oh!” replied the more fortunate one, “you wear the same garters as the Queen. Do you get them from the same maker?”

The jealous one did not reply. She thought deeply and consulted her husband Arimazes.

Meanwhile Zadig perceived that his thoughts were always distracted, as well when he gave audience as when he sat in judgment. He did not know to what to attribute this absence of mind, and that was his only sorrow.

He had a dream, in which he imagined that he laid himself down upon a heap of dry herbs, among which there were many prickly ones that gave him great uneasiness, and that he afterward reposed himself on a soft bed of roses, from which there sprung a serpent that wounded him to the heart with its sharp, venomed fangs. “Alas,” said he, “I have long lain on these dry and prickly herbs; I am now on the bed of roses; but what shall be the serpent?”

Chapter VIII. Jealousy.

Zadig’s calamities sprung even from his happiness, and especially from his merit. He every day conversed with the king and his august consort. The charms of Zadig’s conversation were greatly heightened by that desire of pleasing which is to the mind what dress is to beauty. His youth and graceful appearance insensibly made an impression on Astarte, which she did not at first perceive. Her passion grew and flourished in the bosom of innocence. Without fear or scruple she indulged the pleasing satisfaction of seeing and hearing a man who was so dear to her husband, and to the empire in general. She was continually praising him to the king. She talked of him to her women, who were always sure to improve on her praises. And thus everything contributed to pierce her heart with a dart, of which she did not seem to be sensible. She made several presents to Zadig, which discovered a greater spirit of gallantry than she imagined. She intended to speak to him only as a queen satisfied with his services; and her expressions were sometimes those of a woman in love.

Astarte was much more beautiful than that Semira who had such a strong aversion to one-eyed men, or that other woman who had resolved to cut off her husband’s nose. Her unreserved familiarity, her tender expressions, at which she began to blush; and her eyes, which, though she endeavoured to divert them to other objects, were always fixed upon his, inspired Zadig with a passion that filled him with astonishment. He struggled hard to get the better of it. He called to his aid the precepts of philosophy, which had always stood him in stead; but from thence, though he could derive the light of knowledge, he could procure no remedy to cure the disorders of his lovesick heart. Duty, gratitude, and violated majesty, presented themselves to his mind, as so many avenging gods. He struggled; he conquered. But this victory, which he was obliged to purchase afresh every moment, cost him many sighs and tears. He no longer dared to speak to the queen with that sweet and charming familiarity which had been so agreeable to them both. His countenance was covered with a cloud. His conversation was constrained and incoherent. His eyes were fixed on the ground; and when, in spite of all his endeavours to the contrary, they encountered those of the queen, they found them bathed in tears, and darting arrows of flame. They seemed to say: “We adore each other, and yet are afraid to love; we are consumed with a passion which we both condemn.” Zadig left the royal presence full of perplexity and despair, and having his heart oppressed with a burden which he was no longer able to bear. In the violence of his perturbation he involuntarily betrayed the secret to his friend Cador, in the same manner as a man, who, having long endured a cruel disease, discovers his pain by a cry extorted from him by a more severe attack, and by the cold sweat that covers his brow.

“I have already discovered,” said Cador, “the sentiments which thou wouldst fain conceal from thyself. The symptoms by which the passions show themselves are certain and infallible. Judge, my dear Zadig, since I have read thy heart, whether the king will not discover something in it that may give him offence. He has no other fault but that of being the most jealous man in the world. Thou canst resist the violence of thy passion with greater fortitude than the queen, because thou art a philosopher, and because thou art Zadig. Astarte is a woman. She suffers her eyes to speak with so much the more imprudence, as she does not as yet think herself guilty. Conscious of her own innocence, she unhappily neglects those external appearances which are so necessary. I shall tremble for her so long as she has nothing wherewithal to reproach herself. Could you both agree to consummate a your passion in secret, you could deceive the world. A growing passion which we endeavour to suppress, discovers itself in spite of all our efforts to the contrary but gratified love knows the art of concealment.”

Zadig shuddered at the thought of violating the bed of his royal benefactor; and never was a more loyal subject guilty of an involuntary crime. Meanwhile, the queen mentioned the name of Zadig so frequently, and with such a blushing and downcast look. She was sometimes so lively, and sometimes so perplexed, when she spoke to him in the king’s presence, and was seized with such a deep thoughtfulness at his going away, that the king began to be troubled. He believed all that he saw, and imagined all that he did not see. He particularly remarked that his wife’s shoes were blue, and that Zadig’s shoes were blue; that his wife’s ribbons were yellow, and that Zadig’s bonnet was yellow; and these were terrible symptoms to a prince of so much delicacy. In his jealous mind suspicion was turned into certainty.

All the slaves of kings and queens are so many spies over their hearts. They soon observed that Astarte was tender, and that Moabdar was jealous. The envious man persuaded his wife to send anonymously to the king her garter, which resembled those of the queen; and to complete the misfortune, this garter was blue. The monarch now thought of nothing but in what manner he might best execute his vengeance. He one night resolved to poison the queen, and in the morning to put Zadig to death by the bowstring. The orders were given to a merciless eunuch, who commonly executed his acts of vengeance.

There happened at that time to be in the king’s chamber a little dwarf, who, though dumb, was not deaf. He was allowed, on account of his insignificance, to go wherever he pleased; and, as a domestic animal, was a witness of what passed in the most profound secrecy.

This little mute was strongly attached to the queen and Zadig. With equal horror and surprise he heard the cruel orders given; but how could he prevent the fatal sentence that, in a few hours, was to be carried into execution? He could not write, but he could paint; and excelled particularly in drawing a striking resemblance. He employed a part of the night in sketching out with his pencil what he meant to impart to the queen. The piece represented the king in one corner, boiling with rage, and giving orders to the eunuch; a blue bowstring, and a bowl on a table, with blue garters and yellow ribbons; the queen in the middle of the picture, expiring in the arms of her woman, and Zadig strangled at her feet. The horizon represented a rising sun, to express that this shocking execution was to be performed in the morning. As soon as he had finished the picture, he ran to one of Astarte’s women, awoke her, and made her understand that she must immediately carry it to the queen.

At midnight a messenger knocks at Zadig’s door, awakes him, and gives him a note from the queen. He doubts whether it is not a dream; and opens the letter with a trembling hand. But how great was his surprise, and who can express the consternation and despair into which he was thrown upon reading these words: “Fly, this instant, or thou art a dead man! Fly, Zadig, I conjure thee by our mutual love and my yellow ribbons. I have not been guilty, but I find that I must die like a criminal.”

Zadig was hardly able to speak. He sent for Cador, and, without uttering a word, gave him the note. Cador forced him to obey, and forthwith to take the road to Memphis.

“Shouldst thou dare,” said he, “to go in search of the queen, thou wilt hasten her death. Shouldst thou speak to the king, thou wilt infallibly ruin her. I will take upon me the charge of her destiny; follow thy own. I will spread a report that thou hast taken the road to India. I will soon follow thee and inform ‘thee of all that shall have passed in Babylon.”

At that instant Cador caused two of the swiftest dromedaries to be brought to a private gate of the palace. Upon one of these he mounted Zadig, whom he was obliged to carry to the door, and who was ready to expire with grief. He was accompanied by a single domestic; and Cador, plunged in sorrow and astonishment, soon lost sight of his friend.

This illustrious fugitive arriving on the side of a hill, from whence he could take a view of Babylon, turned his eyes towards the queen’s palace, and fainted away at the sight; nor did he recover his senses but to shed a torrent of tears, and to wish for death. At length, after his thoughts had been long engrossed in lamenting the unhappy fate of the loveliest woman and the greatest queen in the world, he for a moment turned his views on himself, and cried:

“What then is human life? O virtue, how hast thou served me? Two women have basely deceived me; and now a third, who is innocent, and more beautiful than both the others, is going to be put to death! Whatever good I have done hath been to me a continual source of calamity and affliction; and I have only been raised to the height of grandeur to be tumbled down the most horrid precipice of misfortune.”

Filled with these gloomy reflections, his eyes overspread with the veil of grief, his countenance covered with the paleness of death, and his soul plunged in an abyss of the blackest despair, he continued his journey toward Egypt.

Chapter IX. The Woman-Beater.

Zadig directed his course by the stars. The constellation of Orion, and the splendid Dog stars, guided his steps towards the pole of Canopus. He admired those vast globes of light which appear to our eyes as so many little sparks, while the earth, which in reality is only an imperceptible point in nature, appears to our fond imaginations as something so grand and noble. He then represented to himself the human species, as it really is, as a parcel of insects devouring one another on a little atom of clay. This true image seemed to annihilate his misfortunes, by making him sensible of the nothingness of his own being, and that of Babylon. His soul launched out into infinity, and detached from the senses, contemplated the immutable order of the universe. But when, afterward, returning. to himself, and entering into his own heart, he considered that Astarte had perhaps died for him, the universe vanished from his sight, and he beheld nothing in the whole compass of nature but Astarte expiring, and Zadig unhappy.

While he thus alternately gave up his mind to this flux and reflux of sublime philosophy and intolerable grief, he advanced toward the frontiers of Egypt; and his faithful domestic was already in the first village, in search of a lodging.

Meanwhile, as Zadig was walking toward the gardens that skirted the village, he saw, at a small distance from the highway, a woman bathed in tears and calling heaven and earth to her assistance, and a man in a furious passion pursuing her.

This madman had already overtaken the woman, who embraced his knees, notwithstanding which he loaded her with blows and reproaches. Zadig judged by the frantic behaviour of the Egyptian, and by the repeated pardons which the lady asked him, that the one was jealous, and the other unfaithful. But when he surveyed the woman more narrowly, and found her to be a lady of exquisite beauty, and even to have a strong resemblance to the unhappy Astarte, he felt himself inspired with compassion for her, and horror toward the Egyptian.

“Assist me,” cried she to Zadig, with the deepest sighs, “deliver me from the hands of the most barbarous man in the world! Save my life!”

Moved by these pitiful cries, Zadig ran and threw himself between her and the barbarian. As he had some knowledge of the Egyptian language, he addressed him in that tongue:

“If,” said he, “thou hast any humanity, I conjure thee to pay some regard to her beauty and weakness. How canst thou behave in this outrageous manner to one of the masterpieces of nature, who lies at thy feet, and hath no defence but her tears?”

“Ah, ah!” replied the madman, “thou art likewise in love with her. I must be revenged on thee too.”

So saying, he left the lady, whom he had hitherto held with his hand twisted in her hair, and, taking his lance, attempted to stab the stranger. Zadig, who was in cold blood, easily eluded the blow aimed by the frantic Egyptian. He seized the lance near the iron with which it was armed. The Egyptian strove to draw it back; Zadig to wrest it from the Egyptian; and in the struggle it was broken in two. The Egyptian draws his sword; Zadig does the same. They attack each other. The former gives a hundred blows at random; the latter wards them off with great dexterity. The lady, seated on a turf, readjusts her head-dress, and looks at the combatants. The Egyptian excelled in strength; Zadig in address. The one fought like a man whose arm was directed by his judgment; the other like a madman, whose blind rage made him deal his blows at random. Zadig closes with him, and disarms him; and while the Egyptian, now become more furious, endeavours to throw himself upon him, he seizes him, presses him close, and throws him down; and then, holding his sword to his breast, offers him his life. The Egyptian, frantic with rage, draws his poniard, and wounds Zadig at the very instant that the conqueror was granting a pardon. Zadig, provoked at such brutal behaviour, plunged his sword in the bosom of the Egyptian, who, giving a horrible shriek and a violent struggle, instantly expired. Zadig then approached the lady, and said to her with a gentle tone:

“He hath forced me to kill him. I have avenged thy cause. Thou art now delivered from the most violent man I ever saw. What further, madam, wouldst thou have me do for thee?”

“Die, villain,” replied she, “thou hast killed my lover. O, that I were able to tear out thy heart!”

“Why, truly, madam,” said Zadig, “thou hadst a strange kind of a man for a lover; he beat thee with all his might, and would have killed thee, because thou hadst entreated me to give thee assistance.”

“I wish he were beating me still,” replied the lady, with tears and lamentation. “I well deserved it; for I had given him cause to be jealous. Would to heaven that he were now beating me, and that thou wert in his place.”

Zadig, struck with surprise, and inflamed with a higher degree of resentment than he had ever felt before, said:

“Beautiful as thou art, madam, thou deservest that I should beat thee in my turn for thy perverse and impertinent behaviour. But I shall not give myself the trouble.”

So saying, he remounted his camel, and advanced toward the town. He had proceeded but a few steps, when he turned back at the noise of four Babylonian couriers, who came riding at full gallop. One of them, upon seeing the woman, cried:

“It is the very same. She resembles the description that was given us.”

They gave themselves no concern about the dead Egyptian, but instantly seized the lady. She called out to Zadig:

“Help me once more, generous stranger. I ask pardon for having complained of thy conduct. Deliver me again, and I will be thine forever.”

Zadig was no longer in the humour of fighting for her.

“Apply to another,” said he, “thou shalt not again ensnare me in thy wiles.”

Besides, he was wounded; his blood was still flowing, and he himself had need of assistance; and the sight of four Babylonians, probably sent by King Moabdar, filled him with apprehension. He therefore hastened toward the village, unable to comprehend why four Babylonian couriers should come and seize this Egyptian woman, but still more astonished at the lady’s behaviour.

Chapter X. Slavery.

As he entered the Egyptian village, he saw himself surrounded by the people. Every one said:

“This is the man who carried off the beautiful Missouf, and assassinated Clitofis.”

“Gentlemen,” said he, “God preserve me from carrying off your beautiful Missouf. She is too capricious for me. And with regard to Clitofis, I did not assassinate him. I only fought with him in my own defence. He endeavoured to kill me, because I humbly interceded for the beautiful Missouf, whom he beat most unmercifully. I am a stranger, come to seek refuge in Egypt; and it is not likely that, in coming to implore your protection, I should begin by carrying off a woman, and assassinating a man.”

The Egyptians were then just and humane. The people conducted Zadig to the town-house. They first of all ordered his wound to be dressed, and then examined his servant apart, in order to discover the truth. They found that Zadig was not an assassin; but as he was guilty of having killed a man, the law condemned him to be a slave. His two camels were sold for the benefit of the town; all the gold he had brought with him was distributed among the inhabitants; and his person, as well as that of the companion of his journey, was exposed for sale in the market-place. An Arabian merchant, named Setoc, made the purchase, but as the servant was fitter for labour than the master, he was sold at a higher price. There was no comparison between the two men. Thus Zadig became a slave subordinate to his own servant. They were linked together by a chain to their feet, and in this condition they followed the Arabian merchant to his house.

By the way Zadig comforted his servant, and exhorted him to patience; but he could not help making, according to his usual custom, some reflections on human life. “I see,” said he, “that the unhappiness of my fate hath an influence on thine. Hitherto everything has turned out in a manner most unaccountable to me. I have been condemned to pay a fine for having seen the marks of a bitch’s feet. I thought that I should once have been empaled alive on account of a griffin. I have been sent to execution for having made some verses in praise of the king. I have been on the point of being strangled, because the queen had yellow ribbons; and now I am a slave with thee, because a brutal wretch beat his mistress. Come, let us keep a good heart; all this will perhaps have an end. The Arabian merchants must necessarily have slaves; and why not me as well as another, since, as well as another, I am a man? This merchant will not be cruel. He must treat his slaves well if he expects any advantage from them.”

But while he spoke thus his heart was entirely engrossed by the fate of the queen of Babylon.

Two days after, the merchant Setoc set out for Arabia Deserta, with his slaves and his camels. His tribe dwelt near the desert of Oreb. The journey was long and painful. Setoc set a much greater value on the servant than the master, because the former was more expert in loading the camels, and all the little marks of distinction were shown to him. A camel having died within two days journey of Oreb, his burden was divided and laid on the backs of the servants; and Zadig had his share among the rest. Setoc laughed to see all his slaves walking with their bodies inclined. Zadig took the liberty to explain to him the cause, and inform him of the laws of the balance. The merchant was astonished, and began to regard him with other eyes. Zadig, finding he had raised his curiosity, increased it still further by acquainting him with many things that related to commerce; the specific gravity of metals and commodities under an equal bulk; the properties of several useful animals; and the means of rendering those useful that are not naturally so.

At last Setoc began to consider Zadig as a sage, and preferred him to his companion, whom he had formerly so much esteemed. He treated him well, and had no cause to repent of his kindness.

As soon as Setoc arrived among his own tribe he demanded the payment of five hundred ounces of silver, which he had lent to a Jew in presence of two witnesses; but as the witnesses were dead, and the debt could not be proved, the Hebrew appropriated the merchant’s money to himself, and piously thanked God for putting it in his power to cheat an Arabian. Setoc imparted this troublesome affair to Zadig, who had now become his counsel.

“In what place,” said Zadig, “didst thou lend the five hundred ounces of silver to this infidel?”

“Upon a large stone,” replied the merchant, “that lies near the mountain of Oreb.”

“What is the character of thy debtor?” said Zadig.

“That of a knave,” returned Setoc.

“But I ask thee whether he is lively or phlegmatic, cautious or imprudent?”

“He is, of all bad payers,” said Setoc, “the most lively fellow I ever knew.”

“Well,” returned Zadig, “allow me to plead thy cause.”

In effect, Zadig having summoned the Jew to the tribunal, addressed the judge in the following terms:

“Pillow of the throne of equity, I come to demand of this man, in the name of my master, five hundred ounces of silver, which he refuses to repay.”

“Hast thou any witnesses?” said the judge.

“No, they are dead; but there remains a large stone upon which the money was counted; and, if it please thy grandeur to order the stone to be sought for, I hope that it will bear witness. The Hebrew and I will tarry here till the stone arrives. I will send for it at my master’s expense.”

“With all my heart,” replied the judge, and immediately applied himself to the discussion of other affairs.

When the court was going to break up, the judge said to Zadig:

“Well, friend, hath not thy stone yet arrived?”

The Hebrew replied with a smile:

“Thy grandeur may stay here till to-morrow, and after all not see the stone. It is more than six miles from hence; and it would require fifteen men to move it.”

“Well,” cried Zadig, “did I not say that the stone would bear witness? Since this man knows where it is, he thereby confesses that it was upon it that the money was counted.”

The Hebrew was disconcerted, and was soon after obliged to confess the truth. The judge ordered him to be fastened to the stone, without meat or drink, till he should restore the five hundred ounces, which were soon after paid.

The slave Zadig and the stone were held in great repute in Arabia.

Chapter XI. The Funeral Pile.

Setoc, charmed with the happy issue of this affair, made his slave his intimate friend. He had now conceived as great an esteem for him as ever the king of Babylon had done; and Zadig was glad that Setoc had no wife. He had discovered in his master a good natural disposition, much probity of heart, and a great share of good sense; but he was sorry to see that, according to the ancient custom of Arabia, he adored the host of heaven; that is, the sun, moon, and stars. He sometimes spoke to him on this subject with great prudence and discretion. At last he told him that these bodies were like all other bodies in the universe, and no more deserving of our homage than a tree or a rock.

“But,” said Setoc, “they are eternal beings; and it is from them we derive all we enjoy. They animate nature; they regulate the seasons; and, besides, are removed at such an immense distance from us, that we cannot help revering them.”

“Thou receivest more advantage,” replied Zadig, “from the waters of the Red Sea, which carry thy merchandise to the Indies. Why may not it be as ancient as the stars? and if thou adorest what is placed at a distance from thee, thou shouldst adore the land of the Gangarides, which lies at the extremity of the earth.”

“No,” said Setoc, “the brightness of the stars commands my adoration.”

At night Zadig lighted up a great number of candles in the tent where he was to sup with Setoc; and the moment his patron appeared, he fell on his knees before these lighted tapers, and said:

“Eternal and shining luminaries! be ye always propitious to me.”

Having thus said, he sat down at the table, without taking the least notice of Setoc.

“What art thou doing?” said Setoc in amaze.

“I act like thee,” replied Zadig, “I adore these candles and neglect their master and mine.”

Setoc comprehended the profound sense of this apologue. The wisdom of his slave sunk deep into his soul. He no longer offered incense to the creatures, but he adored the eternal Being who made them.

There prevailed at that time in Arabia a shocking custom, sprung originally from Scythia, and which, being established in the Indies by the credit of the Brahmins, threatened to overrun all the East. When a married man died, and his beloved wife aspired to the character of a saint, she burned herself publicly on the body of her husband. This was a solemn feast, and was called the Funeral Pile of Widowhood; and that tribe in which the most women had been burned was the most highly respected. An Arabian of Setoc’s tribe being dead, his widow, whose name was Almona, and who was very devout, published the day and hour when she intended to throw herself into the fire, amidst the sound of drums and trumpets.

Zadig remonstrated against this horrible custom. He showed Setoc how inconsistent it was with the happiness of mankind to suffer young widows to burn themselves widows who were capable of giving children to the state, or at least of educating those they already had; and he convinced him that it was his duty to do all that lay in his power to abolish such a barbarous practice.

“The women,” said Setoc, “have possessed for more than a thousand years the right of burning themselves; and who shall dare to abrogate a law which time hath rendered sacred? Is there anything more respectable than ancient abuses?”

“Reason is more ancient,” replied Zadig, “meanwhile, speak thou to the chiefs of the tribes, and I will go to wait on the young widow.”

Accordingly, he was introduced to her, and, after having insinuated himself into her good graces by some compliments on her beauty, and told her what a pity it was to commit so many charms to the flames, he at last praised her for her constancy and courage.

“Thou must surely have loved thy husband,” said he to her, “with the most passionate fondness.”

“Who, I?” replied the lady, “I loved him not at all. He was a brutal, jealous, and insupportable wretch; but I am firmly resolved to throw myself on his funeral pile.”

“It would appear then,” said Zadig, “that there must be a very delicious pleasure in being burnt alive.”

“Oh! it makes me shudder,” replied the lady, “but that must be overlooked. I am a devotee; I should lose my reputation; and all the world would despise me, if I did not burn myself.”

Zadig having made her acknowledge that she burned herself to gain the good opinion of others, and to gratify her own vanity, entertained her with a long discourse calculated to make her a little in love with life, and even went so far as to inspire her with some degree of good will for the person who spoke to her.

“And what wilt thou do at last,” said he, “if the vanity of burning thyself should not continue?”

“Alas,” said the lady, “I believe I should desire thee to marry me.”

Chapter XII. The Supper.

Setoc, who could not separate himself from this man in whom dwelt wisdom, carried Zadig to the great fair of Bassora, whither the richest merchants of the earth resorted. Zadig was highly pleased to see so many men of different countries united in the same place. He considered the whole universe as one large family assembled at Bassora. The second day he sat at table with an Egyptian, an Indian, an inhabitant of Cathay, a Greek, a Celt, and several other strangers, who, in their frequent voyages to the Arabian Gulf, had learned enough of the Arabic to make themselves understood.

The Egyptian seemed to be in a violent passion. “What an abominable country,” said he, “is Bassora! They refuse me a thousand ounces of gold on the best security in the world.”

“How!” said Setoc. “On what security have they refused thee this sum?”

“On the body of my aunt,” replied the Egyptian. “She was the most notable woman in Egypt; she always accompanied me in my journeys; she died on the road. I have converted her into one of the finest mummies in the world and in my own country I could obtain any amount by giving her as a pledge. It is very strange that they will not here lend me a thousand ounces of gold on such a solid security.”

Angry as he was, he was going to help himself to a bit of excellent boiled fowl, when the Indian, taking him by the hand, cried out in a sorrowful tone, “Ah! what art thou going to do?”

“To eat a bit of this fowl,” replied the man who owned the mummy.

“Take care that thou dost not,” replied the Indian. “It is possible that the soul of the deceased may have passed into this fowl; and thou wouldst not, surely, expose thyself to the danger of eating thy aunt? To boil fowls is a manifest outrage on nature.”

“What dost thou mean by thy nature and thy fowls?” replied the choleric Egyptian. “We adore a bull, and yet we eat heartily of beef.”

“You adore a bull! is it possible?” said the Indian.

“Nothing is more possible,” returned the other; “we have done so for these hundred and thirty-five thousand years; and nobody amongst us has ever found fault with it.”

“A hundred and thirty-five thousand years!” said the Indian. “This account is a little exaggerated. It is but eighty thousand years since India was first peopled, and we are surely more ancient than you are. Brahma prohibited our eating of ox-flesh before you thought of putting it on your spits or altars.”

“This Brahma of yours,” said the Egyptian, “is a pleasant sort of an animal, truly, to compare with our Apis. What great things hath your Brahma done?”

“It was he,” replied the Brahmin, “that taught mankind to read and write, and to whom the world is indebted for the game of chess.”

“Thou art mistaken,” said Chaldaean, who sat near him. “It is to the fish Cannes that we owe these great advantages; and it is just that we should render homage to none but him. “All the world will tell thee that he is a divine being, with a golden tail, and a beautiful human head; and that for three hours every day he left the water to preach on dry land. He had several children, who were kings, as every one knows. I have a picture of him at home, which I worship with becoming reverence. We may eat as much beef as we please; but it is surely a great sin to dress fish for the table. Besides, you are both of an origin too recent and ignoble to dispute with me. The Egyptians reckon only a hundred and thirty-five thousand years, and the Indians but eighty thousand, while we have almanacs of four thousand ages. Believe me; renounce your follies; and I will give to each of you a beautiful picture of Cannes.”

The man of Cathay took up the discourse, and said:

“I have a great respect for the Egyptians, the Chaldaeans, the Greeks, the Celts, Brahma, the bull Apis, and the beautiful fish Cannes; but I could think that Li, or Tien, as he is commonly called, is superior to all the bulls on the earth, or all the fish in the sea. I shall say nothing of my native country; it is as large as Egypt, Chaldaea, and the Indies put together. Neither shall I dispute about the antiquity of our nation; because it is of little consequence whether we are ancient or not; it is enough if we are happy. But were it necessary to speak of almanacs, I could say that all Asia takes ours, and that we had very good ones before arithmetic was known in Chaldaea.”

“Ignorant men, as ye all are,” said the Greek, “do you not know that Chaos is the father of all;. and that form and matter have put the world into its present condition?”

The Greek spoke for a long time, but was at last interrupted by the Celt, who, having drunk pretty deeply while the rest were disputing, imagined he was now more knowing than all the others, and said, with an oath, that there were none but Teutat and the mistletoe of the oak that were worth the trouble of a dispute; that, for his own part, he had always some mistletoe in his pocket; and that the Scythians, his ancestors, were the only men of merit that had ever appeared in the world; that it was true they had sometimes eaten human flesh, but that, notwithstanding this circumstance, his nation deserved to be held in great esteem; and that, in fine, if any one spoke ill of Teutat, he would teach him better manners.

The quarrel had now become warm, and Setoc feared the table would be stained with blood.

Zadig, who had been silent during the whole dispute, arose at last. He first addressed himself to the Celt, as the most furious of the disputants. He told him that he had reason on his side, and begged a few mistletoes. He then praised the Greek for his eloquence, and softened all their exasperated spirits. He said but little to the man of Cathay, because he had been the most reasonable of them all. At last he said:

“You are going, my friends, to quarrel about nothing; for you are all of one mind.”

At this assertion they all cried out in dissent.

“Is it not true,” said he to the Celt, “that you adore not this mistletoe, but him that made both the mistletoe and the oak?”

“Most undoubtedly,” replied the Celt.

“And thou, Mr. Egyptian, dost not thou revere, in a certain bull, him who created the bulls?”

“Yes,” said the Egyptian.

“The fish Cannes,” continued he, must yield to him who made the sea and the fishes. The Indian and the Cathaian,” added he, “acknowledge a first principle. I did not fully comprehend the admirable things that were said by the Greek; but I am sure he will admit a superior being on whom form and matter depend.”

The Greek, whom they all admired, said that Zadig had exactly taken his meaning.

“You are all then,” replied Zadig, “of one opinion and have no cause to quarrel.”

All the company embraced him.

Setoc, after having sold his commodities at a very high price, returned to his own tribe with his friend Zadig; who learned, upon his arrival, that he had been tried in his absence and was now going to be burned by a slow fire.

Chapter XIII. The Rendezvous; The Dance; Blue Eyes.

I. The Rendezvous.

During his journey to Bassora the priests of the stars had resolved to punish Zadig. The precious stones and ornaments of the young widows whom they sent to the funeral pile belonged to them of right; and the least they could do now was to burn Zadig for the ill office he had done them. Accordingly they accused him of entertaining erroneous sentiments of the heavenly host. They deposed against him, and swore that they had heard him say that the stars did not set in the sea. This horrid blasphemy made the judges tremble; they were ready to tear their garments upon hearing these impious words, and they would certainly have torn them had Zadig had wherewithal to pay them for new ones. But, in the excess of their zeal and indignation, they contented themselves with condemning him to be burnt by a slow fire. Setoc, filled with despair at this unhappy event, employed all his interest to save his friend, but in vain. He was soon obliged to hold his peace. The young widow, Almona, who had now conceived a great fondness for life, for which she was obliged to Zadig, resolved to deliver him from the funeral pile, of the abuse of which he had fully convinced her. She resolved the scheme in her own mind without imparting it to any person whatever. Zadig was to be executed the next day. If she could save him at all, she must do it that very night; and the method taken by this charitable and prudent lady was as follows:

She perfumed herself; she heightened her beauty by the richest and gayest apparel, and went to demand an audience of the chief priest of the stars. As soon as she was introduced to the venerable old man, she addressed him in these terms: “Eldest son of the great bear, brother of the bull, and cousin of the great dog (such were the titles of this pontiff), I come to acquaint thee with my scruples. I am much afraid that I have committed a heinous crime in not burning myself on the funeral pile of my dear husband; for, indeed, what had I worth preserving? Perishable flesh, thou seest, that is already entirely withered.” So saying, she drew up her long sleeves of silk, and showed her naked arms, which were of an elegant shape and a dazzling whiteness. “Thou seest,” said she, “that these are little worth.” The priest found in his heart that they were worth a great deal. He swore that he had never in his life seen such beautiful arms. “Alas!” said the widow, “my arms, perhaps, are not so bad as the rest; but thou wilt confess that my neck is not worthy of the least regard.” She then discovered the most charming bosom that nature had ever formed. Compared to it, a rosebud on an apple of ivory would have appeared like madder on the box-tree, and the whiteness of new-washed lambs would have seemed of a dusky yellow. Her large black eyes, languishing with the gentle lustre of a tender fire; her cheeks animated with the finest pink, mixed with the whiteness of milk; her nose, which had no resemblance to the tower of Mount Lebanon; her lips, like two borders of coral, enclosing the finest pearls in the Arabian Sea; all conspired to make the old man fancy and believe that he was young again. Almona, seeing his admiration, now entreated him to pardon Zadig.

“Alas!” said he, “my charming lady, should I grant thee his pardon, it would be of no service, as it must necessarily be signed by three others, my brethren.” “Sign it, however,” said Almona. “With all my heart,” said the priest, “if you will but yield your charms.”

“You do me too much honour. Be pleased to visit me,” said Almona, “when the bright star of Sheat shall appear in the horizon. You will find me on a rose-coloured sofa and may have your pleasure with your humble servant.”

So saying, she courtesied and retired, taking the signed pardon with her. The old man was left a prey to desire, though had misgivings about his abilities; so spent the remainder of the day at the baths, drinking a strengthening infusion of Ceylon cinnamon mixed with spices from Tidor and Ternate, waiting impatiently for the star of Sheat to rise.

Almona then went to see the second pontiff. He assured her that the sun, the moon, and all the luminaries of heaven were but glimmering meteors in comparison to her charms. She asked the same favour of him, and he also granted it readily. She then appointed the second pontiff to meet her at the rising of the star Algenib. From thence she went to the third and fourth priest, always taking their signatures, and making an appointment from star to star. She then sent a message to the judges, entreating them to come to her house on an affair of great importance. They obeyed her summons. She showed them the four names, and told them that the priests had granted the pardon of Zadig. Each of the pontiffs arrived at the hour appointed. Each was surprised at finding his brethren there, but still more at seeing the judges also present. Zadig was saved, and Setoc was so charmed with the skill and address of Almona that he at once made her his wife.

Business affairs now required Setoc’s presence in the island of Serendib; but during the first month of his marriage the month which is called the honeymoon he could not permit himself to leave Almona, nor even to think he could ever leave her, and he requested Zadig to make the journey in his place. “Alas!” said Zadig, “must I put a still greater distance between the beautiful Astarte and myself? But it would be ungrateful not to serve my friend, and I will endeavour to do my duty.”

Setoc and Zadig now took leave of each other with tears in their eyes, both swearing an eternal friendship, and promising to always share their fortunes with each other. Zadig then, after having thrown himself at the feet of his fair deliverer, set out on his journey to Serendib, still musing on the unhappy Astarte, and meditating on the severity of fortune, which seemed to persistently make him the sport of her cruelty and the object of her persecution.

“What!” said he to himself, “fined four hundred ounces of gold for having observed a bitch! condemned to lose my head for four bad verses in praise of the king! sentenced to be strangled because the queen had shoes the colour of my turban! reduced to slavery for having succoured a woman who was beaten! and on the point of being burned for having saved the lives of all the young widows of Arabia!”

II. The Dance.

Arriving in due time at the island of Serendib, Zadig’s merits were at once recognized, and he was popularly regarded as an extraordinary man. He became the friend of the wise and learned, the arbitrator of disputes, and the adviser of the small number of those who were willing to take advice. He was duly presented to the king, who was pleased with his affability, and soon chose him for his friend. But this royal favour caused Zadig to tremble, for he well remembered the misfortunes which the kindness of King Moabdar had formerly brought upon him. “I please the king,” said he; “shall I not therefore be lost?” Still, he could not refuse the king’s friendship, for it must be confessed that Nabussan, king of Serendib, son of Nussanab, son of Nabassau, son of Sanbusna, was one of the most amiable princes in Asia.

But this good prince was always flattered, deceived and robbed. It was a contest who should most pillage the royal treasury. The example set by the receiver-general of Serendib was universally followed by the inferior officers.

This the king knew. He had often changed his treasurers, but had never been able to change the established custom of dividing the revenues into two unequal parts, of which the smaller came to his majesty, and the larger to his officers.

This custom Nabussan explained to Zadig. “You, whose knowledge embraces so many subjects,” said he, “can you not tell me how to select a treasurer who will not rob me?” Assuredly,” said Zadig; I know a sure method for finding you a man who will keep his hands clean.”

The king was charmed, and asked, while he embraced him, how this was to be done.

“You have only,” said Zadig, “to cause all those who apply for the office of treasurer to dance. He who dances the lightest will surely prove to be the most honest man.”

“You jest,” said the king. “A strange way, certainly, of choosing a receiver of my revenues. What! do you pretend that he who cuts the neatest caper will be the most just and skilful financier?”

“I will not answer,” returned Zadig, “for his being the most skilful, but I assure you he will be the most honest.”

Zadig spoke with so much confidence that the king imagined he had some supernatural test for selecting honest financiers.

“I do not like the supernatural,” said Zadig; “people and books dealing in prodigies have always displeased me. If your majesty will permit me to make the test, you will be convinced it is the easiest and simplest thing possible.”

Nabussan consented, and was more astonished to hear that the test was simple, than if it had been claimed as a miracle.

“Leave all the details to me,” said Zadig. “You will gain more by this trial than you imagine.”

The same day he made proclamation in the king’s name, and all candidates for the office of receiver-in-chief of the revenues of his gracious majesty, Nabussan, son of Nussanab, must present themselves in dresses of light silk, on the first day of the month of the crocodile, in the king’s antechamber. The candidates came, accordingly, to the number of sixty-four. Musicians were placed in an adjoining room, and all was prepared for the dance. As the door of the saloon was closed, it was necessary, in order to enter it, to pass through a small gallery which was slightly darkened. An usher directed each candidate in succession through this obscure passage, in which he was left alone for some moments. The king, being aware of the plan, had temptingly spread out in this gallery many of his choicest treasures. When all the candidates were assembled in the saloon, the king ordered the band to play and the dance to begin. Never had dancers performed more unwillingly or with less grace. Their heads were down, their backs bent, their hands pressed to their sides.

“What rascals!” murmured Zadig.

One alone danced with grace and agility his head up, his look assured, his body erect, his arms free, his motions natural.

“Ah, the honest man, the excellent man!” cried Zadig.

The king embraced this upright dancer, appointed him treasurer, and punished all the others with the utmost justice, for each one had, while passing through the gallery, filled his pockets till he could hardly walk. His majesty was distressed at this exhibition of dishonesty, and regretted that among these sixty-four dancers there should be sixty-three thieves. This dark gallery was then named the Corridor of Temptation.

In Persia these sixty-three lords would have been empaled; in other countries a chamber of justice would have consumed in costs three times the money stolen, replacing nothing in the king’s coffers; in yet another kingdom they would have been honourably acquitted, and the light dancer disgraced; in Serendib they were only sentenced to add to the public treasure, for Nabussan was very indulgent.

He was also very grateful, and willingly gave Zadig a larger sum than any treasurer had ever stolen from the revenue. This wealth Zadig used to send a courier to Babylon to learn the fate of Queen Astarte. His voice trembled when directing the courier. His blood seemed to stagnate in his veins. His heart almost ceased to beat. His eyes were suffused with tears.

III. Blue Eyes.

After the courier had gone Zadig returned to the palace, and, forgetting that he was not in his own room, almost unconsciously uttered the word love.

“Ah, love!” exclaimed the king; “that is indeed the cause of my unhappiness. You have divined what it is that causes me pain. You are indeed a great man. I hope you will assist me in my search for a woman, perfect in all respects, and of whose affection I may feel assured. You have proved your ability for this service by selecting for me an honest financier, and I have entire confidence in your success.”

Zadig, having recovered his composure, promised to serve the king in love as he had in finance, although the task seemed to him far more difficult.

“The body and the heart,” said the king.

At these words Zadig could not refrain from interrupting his majesty. “You show good taste,” said he, “by not saying the mind and the heart; for we hear nothing but these words in the talk of Babylon. We see nothing but books which treat of the heart and mind, written by people who have neither the one nor the other. But pardon me, sire, and deign to continue.”

“I have in my palace,” said the king, “one hundred women who are all called charming, graceful, beautiful, affectionate even, or pretending to be so when in my company; but I have too often realized that it is to the king of Serendib they pay court, and that they care very little for Nabussan. This pretended affection does not satisfy my desires. I would find a consort that loves me for myself, and who would willingly be all my own. For such a treasure I would joyfully barter the hundred beauties whose forced smiles afford me no delight. Let us see if out of these hundred queens you can select one true woman to bless me with her love.”

Zadig replied to him, as he had previously done in regard to the finances: “Sire, allow me to make the attempt, and permit me to again use the treasure formerly displayed in the Court of Temptation. I will render you a faithful account.”

The king willingly acceded to this request, and permitted Zadig to do as he desired. He first chose thirty-three of the ugliest little hunchbacks that could be procured in Serendib, then thirty-three of the handsomest pages to be found, and lastly, thirty-three bonzes (priests), the most eloquent and robust he could select. He gave them all liberty to enter the king’s private apartments in the palace, and secure a partner if they so desired. Each little hunchback had four thousand gold pieces given to him, and on the first day each had secured a companion. The pages, who had nothing to give but themselves, did not succeed in many cases until the end of two or three days. The priests had still more trouble in obtaining partners, but finally thirty-three devotees joined their fortunes with these pious suitors. The king, through the blinds which opened into his apartments, saw all these trials, and was astounded. Of these hundred women, ninety-nine discarded his protection. There still remained one, however, still quite young, with whom his majesty had never conversed. They sent to her one, two, three hunchbacks, who displayed before her twenty thousand pieces of gold. She still remained firm, and could not refrain from laughing at the idea of these cripples, that wealth could change their appearance. They then presented before her the two most beautiful pages. She said she thought the king was still more beautiful. They attacked her with the most eloquent of the priests, and afterwards with the most audacious. She found the first a prattler, and could not perceive any merit in the second.

“The heart,” said she, “is everything. I will never yield to the hunchbacks’ gold, the pages’ vanity, or the pompous prattle of the priests. I love only Nabussan, son of Nussanab, and I will wait until he condescends to love me in return.”

The king was transported with joy, astonishment, and love. He took back all the money that had brought success to the hunchbacks, and made a present of it to the beautiful Falide, which was the name of this charming lady. He gave her his heart, which she amply deserved, for never were glances from female eyes more brilliant than her own, nor the charms of youthful beauty more enchanting. Envy, it is true, asserted that she courtesied awkwardly; but candour compels the admission that she danced like the fairies, acted like the graces, sang like the sirens, and that she was, in truth, the very embodiment of intelligence and virtue. Nabussan loved and adored her, but, alas! she had blue eyes, and this apparently trivial fact was the cause of the gravest misfortunes.

There was an old law in Serendib forbidding the kings to marry those to whom the Greeks applied the words blue-eyed.. A high priest had established this law thousands of years ago. He had anathematized blue eyes in order that he might secure for himself the hand of the king’s favourite. The various orders of the empire now remonstrated with Nabussan for disregarding this organic law and loving the beautiful Falide. They publicly asserted that the last days of the kingdom had arrived; that this act of royal love was the height of sacrilege; that all nature was threatened with a sinister ending, and all because Nabussan, son of Nussanab, loved two magnificent blue eyes. The cripples, the capitalists, the bonzes and the brunettes filled the kingdom with their complaints.

The barbarians of the northern provinces profited by the general discontent. They invaded the territory of the good Nabussan and demanded a tribute from his subjects. The priests, who possessed half the revenues of the state, contented themselves with raising their hands to heaven, and refused to put them in their coffers to aid the king. They chanted beautiful prayers, and left the state a prey to the invaders.

“O, my dear Zadig!” sadly cried Nabussan, “can you not rescue me from this impending danger?”

“Very willingly,” replied Zadig. “You shall have for your defence as much money from the priests as you may desire. Leave, I pray you, without guard, the property of the bonzes, and defend only your own possessions.”

Nabussan wisely followed this advice. The priests became alarmed, threw themselves at his feet, and implored his protection. The king replied with agreeable music, and chanted forth prayers and invocations to heaven with much sweetness and melody. Finally, the priests reluctantly contributed the money, and the king brought the war to a happy termination.

Thus Zadig, by his sensible advice and judicious services, drew upon himself the enmity of the most powerful parties in the state. The bonzes and the brunettes swore to destroy him; the capitalists and the cripples did not spare him. They caused the good Nabussan to suspect him. “Services rendered often remain in the ante-chamber, and distrust enters into the cabinet.” So said Zoroaster. Every day there were fresh accusations; the first is repelled, the second is lightly thought of, the third wounds, the fourth kills.

Zadig was dismayed, and having now satisfactorily arranged Setoc’s affairs, he only thought of leaving the island in safety.

“But where shall I go?” said he. “If I remain in Serendib the priests will doubtless have me empaled; in Egypt I should probably be enslaved; burnt, according to all appearances, in Arabia; strangled in Babylon. However, I must learn what has become of Queen Astarte, and will go on and see what sad fate destiny has still in store for me.”

Chapter XIV. The Robber.

Arriving on the frontiers which divide Arabia Petraea from Syria, he passed by a very strong castle from which a party of armed Arabians sallied forth. They instantly surrounded him and cried:

“All thou hast belongs to us, and thy person is the property of our master.”

Zadig replied by drawing his sword. His servant, who was a man of courage, did the same. They killed the first Arabians that presumed to lay hands on them, and though the number was redoubled they were not dismayed, but resolved to perish in the conflict. Two men defended themselves against a multitude, but such a combat could not last long. The master of the castle, whose name was Arbogad, having observed from a window the prodigies of valour performed by Zadig, conceived a high esteem for this heroic stranger. He descended in haste, and went in person to call off his men and deliver the two travellers.

“All that passes over my lands,” said he, “belongs to me, as well as what I find upon the lands of others; but thou seemest to be a man of such undaunted courage that I will exempt thee from the common law.”

He then conducted him to his castle, ordering his men to treat him well, and in the evening Arbogad supped with Zadig. The lord of the castle was one of those Arabians who are commonly called robbers, but he now and then performed some good actions amidst a multitude of bad ones. He robbed with a furious rapacity, and granted favours with great generosity. He was intrepid in action, affable in company, a debauchee at table, but gay in his debauchery, and particularly remarkable for his frank and open behaviour. He was highly pleased with Zadig, whose lively conversation lengthened the repast. At last Arbogad said to him:

“I advise thee to enrol thy name in my catalogue. Thou canst not do better. This is not a bad trade, and thou mayest one day become what I am at present.”

“May I take the liberty of asking thee,” said Zadig, “how long thou hast followed this noble profession?”

“From my most tender youth,” replied the lord, “I was servant to a petty, good-natured Arabian, but could not endure the hardships of my situation. I was vexed to find that fate had given me no share of the earth, which equally belongs to all men. I imparted the cause of my uneasiness to an old Arabian, who said to me:

“‘My son, do not despair; there was once a grain of sand that lamented that it was no more than a neglected atom in the deserts; at the end of a few years it became a diamond, and it is now the brightest ornament in the crown of the king of the Indies.’

“This discourse made a deep impression on my mind. I was the grain of sand, and I resolved to become the diamond. I began by stealing two horses. I soon got a party of companions. I put myself in a condition to rob small caravans, and thus, by degrees, I destroyed the difference which had formerly subsisted between me and other men. I had my share of the good things of this world, and was even recompensed with usury for the hardships I had suffered. I was greatly respected, and became the captain of a band of robbers. I seized this castle by force. The satrap of Syria had a mind to dispossess me of it, but I was too rich to have anything to fear. I gave the satrap a handsome present, by which means I preserved my castle, and increased my possessions. He even appointed me treasurer of the tributes which Arabia Petraea pays to the king of kings. I perform my office of receiver with great punctuality, but take the freedom to dispense with that of paymaster.

“The grand desterham of Babylon sent hither a petty satrap, in the name of King Moabdar, to have me strangled. This man arrived with his orders. I was apprised of all. I caused to be strangled, in his presence, the four persons he had brought with him to draw the noose, after which I asked him how much his commission of strangling me might be worth. He replied that his fees would amount to above three hundred pieces of gold. I then convinced him that he might gain more by staying with me. I made him an inferior robber, and he is now one of my best and richest officers. If thou wilt take my advice, thy success may be equal to his. Never was there a better season for plunder, since King Moabdar is killed, and all Babylon thrown into confusion.”

“Moabdar killed!” said Zadig, “and what has become of Queen Astarte?”

“I know not,” replied Arbogad. All I know is that Moabdar lost his senses and was killed; that Babylon is a scene of disorder and bloodshed; that all the empire is desolated; that there are some fine strokes to be made yet; and that, for my own part, I have struck some that are admirable.”

“But the queen,” said Zadig; “for heaven’s sake, knowest thou nothing of the queen’s fate?”

“Yes,” replied he, “I have heard something of a prince of Hircania. If she was not killed in the tumult, she is probably one of his concubines. But I am much fonder of booty than news. I have taken several women in my excursions, but I keep none of them. I sell them at a high price when they are beautiful, without inquiring who they are. In commodities of this kind rank makes no difference, and a queen that is ugly will never find a purchaser. Perhaps I may have sold Queen Astarte; perhaps she is dead; but, be it as it may, it is of little consequence to me, and I should imagine of as little to thee.”

So saying, he drank a large draught, which threw all his ideas into such confusion that Zadig could obtain no further information.

Zadig remained for some time without speech, sense, or motion. Arbogad continued drinking, constantly repeated that he was the happiest man in the world, and exhorted Zadig to put himself in the same condition. At last the soporiferous fume of the wine lulled him into a gentle repose. Zadig passed the night in the most violent perturbation. “What!” said he, “did the king lose his senses? And is he killed? I cannot help lamenting his fate. The empire is rent in pieces, and this robber is happy. O fortune! O destiny! A robber is happy, and the most beautiful of nature’s works hath perhaps perished in a barbarous manner, or lives in a state worse than death. O Astarte! what has become of thee?”

At daybreak he questioned all those he met in the castle, but they were all busy, and he received no answer. During the night they had made a new capture, and they were now employed in dividing the spoil. All he could obtain in this hurry and confusion was an opportunity of departing, which he immediately embraced, plunged deeper than ever in the most gloomy and mournful reflections.

Zadig proceeded on his journey with a mind full of disquiet and perplexity, and wholly employed on the unhappy Astarte, on the King of Babylon, on his faithful friend Cador, on the happy robber Arbogad, on that capricious woman whom the Babylonians had seized on the frontiers of Egypt, in a word, on all the misfortunes and disappointments he had hitherto suffered.

Chapter XV. The Fisherman.

At a few leagues distance from Arbogad’s castle he came to the banks of a small river, still deploring his fate, and considering himself as the most wretched of mankind. He saw a fisherman lying on the bank of the river, scarcely holding in his weak and feeble hand a net which he seemed ready to drop, and lifting up his eyes to heaven.

“I am certainly,” said the fisherman, “the most unhappy man in the world. I was universally allowed to be the most famous dealer in cream cheese in Babylon, and yet I am ruined. I had the most handsome wife that any man in my situation could have, and by her I have been betrayed. I had still left a paltry house, and that I have seen pillaged and destroyed. At last I took refuge in this cottage, where I have no other resource than fishing, and yet I cannot catch a single fish. Oh, my net! no more will I throw thee into the water; I will throw myself in thy place.”

So saying, he arose and stepped forward, in the attitude of a man ready to throw himself into the river, and thus to finish his life.

“What!” said Zadig, “are there men as wretched as I?”

His eagerness to save the fisherman’s life was as sudden as this reflection. He runs to him, stops him, and speaks to him with a tender and compassionate air. It is commonly supposed that we are less miserable when we have companions in our misery. This, according to Zoroaster, does not proceed from malice, but necessity. We feel ourselves insensibly drawn to an unhappy person as to one like ourselves. The joy of the happy would be an insult. But two men in distress are like two slender trees, which, mutually supporting each other, fortify themselves against the tempest.

“Why,” said Zadig to the fisherman, “dost thou sink under thy misfortunes?”

“Because,” replied he, “I see no means of relief. I was the most considerable man in the village of Derlback, near Babylon, and with the assistance of my wife I made the best cream cheese in the empire. Queen Astarte, and the famous minister, Zadig, were extremely fond of them. I had sent them six hundred cheeses, and one day went to the city to receive my money, but on my arrival at Babylon was informed that the queen and Zadig had disappeared. I ran to the house of Lord Zadig, whom I had never seen, and found there the inferior officers of the grand desterham, who, being furnished with a royal licence, were plundering it with great loyalty and order. From thence I flew to the queen’s kitchen, some of the lords of which told me that the queen was dead; some said she was in prison, and others pretended that she had made her escape; but they all agreed in assuring me that I would not be paid for my cheese. I went with my wife to the house of Lord Orcan, who was one of my customers, and begged his protection in my present distress. He granted it to my wife, but refused it to me. She was whiter than the cream cheeses that began my misfortune, and the lustre of the Tyrian purple was not more bright than the carnation which animated this whiteness. For this reason Orcan detained her, and drove me from his house. In my despair I wrote a letter to my dear wife. She said to the bearer: ‘Ha, ha! I know the writer of this a little. I have heard his name mentioned. They say he makes excellent cream cheeses. Desire him to send me some and he shall be paid.’ “In my distress I resolved to apply to justice. I had still six ounces of gold remaining. I was obliged to give two to the lawyer whom I consulted, two to the procurator who undertook my cause, and two to the secretary of the first judge. When all this was done, my business was not begun; and I had already expended more money than my cheese and my wife were worth. I returned to my own village, with an intention to sell my house, in order to enable me to recover my wife.

“My house was well worth sixty ounces of gold; but as my neighbours saw that I was poor, and obliged to sell it, the first to whom I applied offered me thirty ounces, the second twenty, and the third ten. Bad as these offers were, I was so blind that I was going to strike a bargain, when a prince of Hircania came to Babylon, and ravaged all in his way. My house was first sacked and then burned.

“Having thus lost my money, my wife, and my house, I retired into this country, where thou now seest me. I have endeavoured to gain a subsistence by fishing, but the fish make a mock of me, as well as the men. I catch none; I die of hunger; and had it not been for thee, august comforter, I should have perished in the river.”

The fisherman was not allowed to give this long account without interruption. At every moment, Zadig, moved and transported, said:

“What, knowest thou nothing of the queen’s fate?”

“No, my lord,” replied the fisherman, “but I know that neither the queen nor Zadig have paid me for my cream cheeses; that I have lost my wife, and am now reduced to despair.”

“I flatter myself,” said Zadig, “that thou wilt not lose all thy money. I have heard of this Zadig; he is an honest man, and if he return to Babylon, as he expects, he will give thee more than he owes thee. But with regard to thy wife, who is not so honest, I advise thee not to seek to recover her. Believe me, go to Babylon; I shall be there before thee, because I am on horseback, and thou art on foot. Apply to the illustrious Cador. Tell him thou hast met his friend. Wait for me at his house. Go; perhaps thou wilt not always be unhappy.

“O, powerful Oromazes!” continued he, “thou employest me to comfort this man. Whom wilt thou employ to give me consolation?”

So saying, he gave the fisherman half the money he had brought from Arabia. The fisherman, struck with surprise and ravished with joy, kissed the feet of the friend of Cador, and said:

“Thou art surely an angel sent from heaven to save me!”

Meanwhile Zadig continued to make fresh inquiries, and to shed tears. “What! my lord,” cried the fisherman, “and art thou then so unhappy, thou who bestowest favours?”

“A hundred times more unhappy than thee,” replied Zadig.

“But how is it possible,” said the good man, “that the giver can be more wretched than the receiver?”

“Because,” replied Zadig, “thy greatest misery arose from poverty, and mine is seated in the heart.”

“Did Orcan take thy wife from thee?” said the fisherman.

This word recalled to Zadig’s mind the whole of his adventures. He repeated the catalogue of his misfortunes, beginning with the queen’s bitch, and ending with his arrival at the castle of the robber Arbogad.

“Ah!” said he to the fisherman, “Orcan deserves to be punished; but it is commonly such men as those that are the favourites of fortune. However, go thou to the house of Lord Cador, and there await my arrival.”

They then parted. The fisherman walked, thanking heaven for the happiness of his condition; and Zadig rode, accusing fortune for the hardness of his lot.

Chapter XVI. The Basilisk.

Arriving in a beautiful meadow, he there saw several women, who were searching for something with great application. He took the liberty to approach one of them, and to ask if he might have the honour to assist them in their search.

“Take care that thou dost not,” replied the Syrian. What we are searching for can be touched only by women.”

“Strange,” said Zadig. “May I presume to ask thee what it is that women only are permitted to touch?”

“It is a basilisk,” said she.

“A basilisk, madam! and for what purpose, pray, dost thou seek for a basilisk?”

It is for our lord and master, Ogul, whose castle thou seest on the bank of that river, at the end of that meadow. We are his most humble slaves. The lord Ogul is sick. His physician has ordered him to eat a basilisk, stewed in rose-water, and as it is a very rare animal, and can only be taken by women, the lord Ogul hath promised to choose for his well-beloved wife the woman that shall bring him a basilisk. Let me go on in my search, for thou seest what I shall lose if I am forestalled by my companions.”

Zadig left her and the other Assyrians to search for their basilisk, and continued his journey through the meadow; when, coming to the brink of a small rivulet, he found a lady lying on the grass, and who was not searching for anything. Her person seemed majestic, but her face was covered with a veil. She was inclined toward the rivulet, and profound sighs proceeded from her bosom. In her hand she held a small rod, with which she was tracing characters on the fine sand that lay between the turf and the brook.

Zadig had the curiosity to examine what this woman was writing. He drew near. He saw the letter Z, then an A; he was astonished; then appeared a D; he started. But never was surprise equal to his when he saw the last two letters of his name. He stood for some time immovable. At last, breaking silence with a faltering voice:

“Oh, generous lady! pardon a stranger, an unfortunate man, for presuming to ask thee by what surprising adventure I here find the name of Zadig traced out by thy divine hand?”

At this voice, and these words, the lady lifted up the veil with a trembling hand, looked at Zadig, sent forth a cry of tenderness, surprise, and joy, and sinking under the various emotions which at once assaulted her soul, fell speechless into his arms. It was Astarte herself; it was the queen of Babylon; it was she whom Zadig adored, and whom he had reproached himself for adoring; it was she whose misfortunes he had so deeply lamented, and for whose fate he had been so anxiously concerned. He was for a moment deprived of the use of his senses, when he had fixed his eyes on those of Astarte, which now began to open again with a languor mixed with confusion and tenderness.

“O ye immortal powers!” cried he, “who preside over the fates of weak mortals, do ye indeed restore Astarte to me? At what a time, in what a place, and in what a condition do I again behold her?”

He fell on his knees before Astarte, and laid his face in the dust at her feet. The queen of Babylon raised him up, and made him sit by her side on the brink of the rivulet. She frequently wiped her eyes, from which the tears continued to flow afresh. She twenty times resumed her discourse, which her sighs as often interrupted. She asked by what strange accident they were brought together, and suddenly prevented his answer by other questions. She waived the account of her own misfortunes, and desired to be informed of those of Zadig. At last, both of them having a little composed the tumult of their souls, Zadig acquainted her in a few words by what adventure he was brought into that meadow.

“But, O unhappy and respectable queen, by what means do I find thee in this lonely place, clothed in the habit of a slave, and accompanied by other female slaves, who are searching for a basilisk, which, by order of the physician, is to be stewed in rose-water?”

“While they are searching for their basilisk,” said the fair Astarte, “I will inform thee of all I have suffered, for which heaven has sufficiently recompensed me by restoring thee to my sight. Thou knowest that the king, my husband, was vexed to see thee, the most amiable of mankind, and that for this reason he one night resolved to strangle thee and poison me. Thou knowest how heaven permitted my little mute to inform me of the orders of his sublime majesty. Hardly had the faithful Cador obliged thee to depart, in obedience to my command, when he ventured to enter my apartment at midnight by a secret passage. He carried me off, and conducted me to the temple of Oromazes, where the magus, his brother, shut me up in that huge statue, whose base reaches to the foundation of the temple, and whose top rises to the summit of the dome. I was there buried in a manner, but was served by the magus, and supplied with all the necessaries of life. At break of day his majesty’s apothecary entered my chamber with a potion composed of a mixture of henbane, opium, hemlock, black hellebore, and aconite; and another officer went to thine with a bowstring of blue silk. Neither of us were to be found. Cador, the better to deceive the king, pretended to come and accuse us both. He said that thou hadst taken the road to the Indies, and I that to Memphis; on which the king’s guards were immediately despatched in pursuit of us both.

“The couriers who pursued me did not know me. I had hardly ever shown my face to any but thee, and to thee only in the presence and by the order of my husband. They conducted themselves in the pursuit by the description that had been given of my person. On the frontiers of Egypt they met with a woman of the same stature as mine, and possessed perhaps of greater charms. She was weeping and wandering. They made no doubt but that this woman was the queen of Babylon, and accordingly brought her to Moabdar. Their mistake at first threw the king into a violent passion; but having viewed this woman more attentively, he found her extremely handsome, and was comforted.

She was called Missouf. I have since been informed that this name, in the Egyptian language, signifies the capricious fair one. She was so in reality, but she had as much cunning as caprice. She pleased Moabdar, and gained such an ascendancy over him as to make him choose her for his wife. Her character then began to appear in its true colours. She gave herself up, without scruple, to all the freaks of a wanton imagination. She would have obliged the chief of the magi, who was old and gouty, to dance before her, and, on his refusal, she persecuted him with the most unrelenting cruelty. She ordered her master of the horse to make her a pie of sweetmeats. In vain did he represent that he was not a pastry-cook. He was obliged to make it, and lost his place because it was baked a little too hard. The post of master of the horse she gave to her dwarf, and that of chancellor to her page. In this manner did she govern Babylon. Everybody regretted the loss of me. The king, who, till the moment of his resolving to poison me and strangle thee, had been a tolerably good kind of man, seemed now to have drowned all his virtues in his immoderate fondness for this capricious fair one. He came to the temple on the great day of the feast held in honour of the sacred fire. I saw him implore the gods on behalf of Missouf, at the feet of the statue in which I was enclosed. I raised my voice; I cried out:

“‘The gods reject the prayers of a king who is now become a tyrant, and who attempted to murder a reasonable wife, in order to marry a woman remarkable for nothing but her folly and extravagance.’

“At these words Moabdar was confounded, and his head became disordered. The oracle I had pronounced, and the tyranny of Missouf, conspired to deprive him of his judgment, and in a few days his reason entirely forsook him.

“His madness, which seemed to be the judgment of heaven, was the signal for a revolt. The people rose, and ran to arms; and Babylon, which had been so long immersed in idleness and effeminacy, became the theatre of a bloody civil war. I was taken from the heart of my statue and placed at the head of a party. Cador flew to Memphis to bring thee back to Babylon. The prince of Hircania, informed of these fatal events, returned with his army, and made a third party in Chaldaea. He attacked the king, who fled before him with his capricious Egyptian. Moabdar died, pierced with wounds. Missouf fell into the hands of the conqueror. I myself had the misfortune to be taken by a party of Hircanians, who conducted me to their prince’s tent, at the very moment that Missouf was brought before him. Thou wilt doubtless be pleased to hear that the prince thought me more beautiful than the Egyptian; but thou wilt be sorry to be informed that he designed me for his seraglio. He told me, with a blunt and resolute air, that as soon as he had finished a military expedition, which he was just going to undertake, he would come to me. Judge how great must have been my grief. My ties with Moabdar were already dissolved; I might have been the wife of Zadig; and I was fallen into the hands of a barbarian. I answered him with all the pride which my high rank and noble sentiment could inspire. I had always heard it affirmed that heaven stamped on persons of my condition a mark of grandeur, which, with a single word or glance, could reduce to the lowliness of the most profound respect those rash and forward persons who presume to deviate from the rules of politeness. I spoke like a queen, but was treated like a maid-servant. The Hircanian, without even deigning to speak to me, told his black eunuch that I was impertinent, but that he thought me handsome. He ordered him to take care of me and to put me under the regimen of favourites, so that, my complexion being improved, I might be the more worthy of his favours when he should be at leisure to honour me with them. I told him that, rather than submit to his desires, I would put an end to my life. He replied, with a smile, that women, he believed, were not so bloodthirsty, and that he was accustomed to such violent expressions; and then left me with the air of a man who had just put another parrot into his aviary. What a state for the first queen of the universe, and, what is more, for a heart devoted to Zadig!”

At these words Zadig threw himself at her feet, and bathed them with his tears. Astarte raised him with great tenderness, and thus continued her story:

“I now saw myself in the power of a barbarian, and rival to the foolish woman with whom I was confined. She gave me an account of her adventures in Egypt. From the description she gave of your person, from the time, from the dromedary on which you were mounted, and from every other circumstance, I inferred that Zadig was the man who had fought for her. I doubted not but that you were at Memphis, and therefore resolved to repair thither. ‘Beautiful Missouf,’ said I, ‘thou art more handsome than I, and will please the prince of Hircania much better. Assist me in contriving the means of my escape. Thou wilt then reign alone. Thou wilt at once make me happy and rid thyself of a rival.’

“Missouf concerted with me the means of my flight; and I departed secretly with a female slave. As I approached the frontiers of Arabia, a famous robber, named Arbogad, seized me and sold me to some merchants who brought me to this castle where Lord Ogul resides. He bought me without knowing who I was. He is a voluptuary, ambitious of nothing but good living, and thinks that God sent him into the world for no other purpose than to sit at table. He is so extremely corpulent, that he is always in danger of suffocation. His physician, who has but little credit with him when he has a good digestion, governs him with a despotic sway when he has eaten too much. He has persuaded him that a basilisk stewed in rose-water will effect a complete cure. The lord Ogul hath promised his hand to the female slave that brings him a basilisk. Thou seest that I leave them to vie with each other in meriting this honour; and never was I less desirous of finding the basilisk than since heaven hath restored thee to my sight.”

This account was succeeded by a long conversation between Astarte and Zadig, consisting of everything that their long suppressed sentiments, their great sufferings, and their mutual love, could inspire into hearts the most noble and tender; and the genii who preside over love carried their words to the sphere of Venus.

The women returned to Ogul without having found the basilisk. Zadig was introduced to this mighty lord, and spoke to him in the following terms:

“May immortal health descend from heaven to bless all thy days! I am a physician. At the first report of thy indisposition I flew to thy castle, and have now brought thee a basilisk stewed in rosewater. Not that I pretend to marry thee. All I ask is the liberty of a Babylonian slave, who hath been in thy possession for a few days; and if I should not be so happy as to cure thee, magnificent Lord Ogul, I consent to remain a slave in her place.”

The proposal was accepted. Astarte set out for Babylon with Zadig’s servant, promising, immediately upon her arrival, to send a courier to inform him of all that had happened. Their parting was as tender as their meeting. The moment of meeting, and that of parting are the two greatest epochs of life, as saith the great book of Zend. Zadig loved the queen with as much ardour as he professed; and the queen loved Zadig more than she thought proper to acknowledge.

Meanwhile Zadig spoke thus to Ogul:

“My lord, my basilisk is not to be eaten; all its virtues must enter through thy pores. I have inclosed it in a little ball, blown up and covered with a fine skin. Thou must strike this ball with all thy might, and I must strike it back for a considerable time; and by observing this regimen for a few days, thou wilt see the effects of my art.”

The first day Ogul was out of breath, and thought he should have died with fatigue. The second he was less fatigued, and slept better. In eight days he recovered all the strength, all the health, all the agility and cheerfulness of his most agreeable years.

“Thou hast played at ball, and hast been temperate,” said Zadig. “Know that there is no such thing in nature as a basilisk; that temperance and exercise are the two great preservatives of health; and that the art of reconciling intemperance and health is as chimerical as the philosopher’s stone, judicial astrology, or the theology of the magi.”

Ogul’s first physician observing how dangerous this man might prove to the medical art, formed a design, in conjunction with the apothecary, to send Zadig to search for a basilisk in the other world. Thus, after having suffered such a long train of calamities on account of his good actions, he was now upon the point of losing his life for curing a gluttonous lord. He was invited to an excellent dinner, and was to have been poisoned in the second course; but, during the first, he happily received a courier from the fair Astarte, at which he instantly departed.

Chapter XVII. The Combats.

The queen was received at Babylon with all those transports of joy which are ever felt on the return of a beautiful princess who hath been involved in calamities. Babylon was now in greater tranquillity. The prince of Hircania had been killed in battle. The victorious Babylonians declared that the queen should marry the man whom they should choose for their sovereign. They were resolved that the first place in the world, that of being husband to Astarte and king of Babylon, should not depend on cabals and intrigues. They swore to acknowledge for king the man who, upon trial, should be found to be possessed of the greatest valour and the greatest wisdom. Accordingly, at the distance of a few leagues from the city, a spacious place was marked out for the lists, surrounded with magnificent amphitheatres. Thither the combatants were to repair in complete armour. Each of them had a separate apartment behind the amphitheatres, where they were neither to be seen nor known by any one. Each was to encounter four knights; and those that were so happy as to conquer four, were then to engage with one another; so that he who remained the last master of the field, would be proclaimed conqueror at the games. Four days after he was to return to the same place, and to explain the enigmas proposed by the magi. If he did not explain the enigmas, he was not king; and the running at the lances was to begin afresh, till a man should be found who was conqueror in both these combats; for they were absolutely determined to have a king possessed of the greatest wisdom and the most invincible courage. The queen was all the while to be strictly guarded. She was only allowed to be present at the games, and even there she was to be covered with a veil; but was not allowed to speak to any of the competitors, that so they might neither receive favour nor suffer injustice. These particulars Astarte communicated to her lover, hoping that, in order to obtain her, he would show himself possessed of greater courage and wisdom than any other person.

Zadig set out on his journey, beseeching Venus to fortify his courage and enlighten his understanding. He arrived on the banks of the Euphrates on the eve of this great day. He caused his device to be inscribed among those of the combatants, concealing his face and his name, as the law ordained; and then went to repose himself in the apartment that fell to him by lot. His friend, Cador, who, after the fruitless search he had made for him in Egypt, had now returned to Babylon, sent to his tent a complete suit of armour, which was a present from the queen; as also from himself, one of the finest horses in Persia. Zadig presently perceived that these presents were sent by Astarte; and from thence his courage derived fresh strength, and his love the most animating hopes.

Next day, the queen being seated under a canopy of jewels, and the amphitheatres filled with all the gentlemen and ladies of rank in Babylon, the combatants appeared in the circus. Each of them came and laid his device at the feet of the grand magus. They drew their devices by lot; and that of Zadig was the last. The first who advanced was a certain lord, named Itobad, very rich and very vain, but possessed of little courage, of less address, and scarcely of any judgment at all. His servants had persuaded him that such a man as he ought to be king. He had said in reply, “Such a man as I ought to reign”; and thus they had armed him cap-a-pie. He wore an armour of gold enamelled with green, a plume of green feathers, and a lance adorned with green ribbons. It was instantly perceived by the manner in which Itobad managed his horse, that it was not for such a man as him that heaven reserved the sceptre of Babylon. The first knight that ran against him threw him out of his saddle; the second laid him flat on his horse’s buttocks, with his legs in the air, and his arms extended. Itobad recovered himself, but with so bad a grace, that the whole amphitheatre burst out a-laughing. The third knight disdained to make use of his lance; but, making a pass at him, took him by the right leg, and wheeling him half round, laid him prostrate on the sand. The squires of the games ran to him laughing, and replaced him in his saddle. The fourth combatant took him by the left leg, and tumbled him down on the other side. He was conducted back with scornful shouts to his tent, where, according to the law, he was to pass the night; and as he limped along with great difficulty, he said: “What an adventure for such a man as I!”

The other knights acquitted themselves with greater ability and success. Some of them conquered two combatants; a few of them vanquished three; but none but Prince Otamus conquered four. At last Zadig fought in his turn. He successively threw four knights off their saddles with all the grace imaginable. It then remained to be seen who should be conqueror, Otamus or Zadig. The arms of the first were gold and blue, with a plume of the same colour; those of the last were white. The wishes of all the spectators were divided between the knight in blue and the knight in white. The queen, whose heart was in a violent palpitation, offered prayers to heaven for the success of the white colour.

The two champions made their passes and vaults with so much agility, they mutually gave and received such dexterous blows with their lances, and sat so firmly in their saddles, that everybody but the queen wished there might be two kings in Babylon. At length, their horses being tired and their lances broken, Zadig had recourse to this stratagem: He passes behind the blue prince; springs upon the buttocks of his horse; seizes him by the middle; throws him on the earth; places himself in the saddle, and wheels around Otamus as he lay extended on the ground. All the amphitheatre cried out, “Victory to the white knight!” Otamus rises in a violent passion and draws his sword; Zadig leaps from his horse with his sabre in his hand. Both of them are now on the ground, engaged in a new combat, where strength and agility triumph by turns. The plumes of their helmets, the studs of their bracelets, and the rings of their armour are driven to a great distance by the violence of a thousand furious blows. They strike with the point and the edge; to the right, to the left; on the head, on the breast; they retreat; they advance; they measure swords; they close; they seize each other; they bend like serpents; they attack like lions; and the fire every moment flashes from their blows. At last Zadig, having recovered his spirits, stops; makes a feint; leaps upon Otamus; throws him on the ground, and disarms him; and Otamus cries out:

“It is thou alone, O white knight, that oughtest to reign over Babylon!”

The queen was now at the height of her joy. The knight in blue armour, and the knight in white, were conducted each to his own apartment, as well as all the others, according to the intention of the law. Mutes came to wait on them, and to serve them at table. It may be easily supposed that the queen’s little mute waited on Zadig. They were then left to themselves to enjoy the sweets of repose till next morning, at which time the conqueror was to bring his device to the grand magus, to compare it with that which he had left, and make himself known.

Zadig, though deeply in love, was so much fatigued that he could not help sleeping. Itobad, who lay near him, never closed his eyes. He arose in the night, entered his apartment, took the white arms and the device of Zadig, and put his green armour in their place. At break of day, he went boldly to the grand magus, to declare that so great a man as he was conqueror. This was little expected; however, he was proclaimed while Zadig was still asleep. Astarte, surprised and filled with despair, returned to Babylon. The amphitheatre was almost empty when Zadig awoke; he sought for his arms but could find none but the green armour. With this he was obliged to cover himself, having nothing else near him. Astonished and enraged, he put it on in a furious passion and advanced in this equipage.

The people that still remained in the amphitheatre and the circus received him with hoots and hisses. They surrounded him, and insulted him to his face. Never did man suffer such cruel mortifications. He lost his patience; with his sabre he dispersed such of the populace as dared to affront him; but he knew not what course to take. He could not see the queen; he could not claim the white armour she had sent him without exposing her; and thus, while she was plunged in grief, he was filled with fury and distraction. He walked on the banks of the Euphrates, fully persuaded that his star had destined him to inevitable misery; and revolving in his mind all his misfortunes, from the adventure of the woman who hated one-eyed men, to that of his armour.

“This,” said he, “is the consequence of my having slept too long. Had I slept less, I should now have been king of Babylon, and in possession of Astarte. Knowledge, virtue, and courage, have hitherto served only to make me miserable.”

He then let fall some secret murmurings against Providence, and was tempted to believe that the world was governed by a cruel destiny, which oppressed the good, and prospered knights in green armour.

Chapter XVIII. The Hermit.

One of Zadig’s greatest mortifications was his being obliged to wear that green armour which had exposed him to such contumelious treatment. A merchant happening to pass by, he sold it to him for a trifle, and bought a gown and a long bonnet. In this garb he proceeded along the banks of the Euphrates, filled with despair, and secretly accusing Providence, which thus continued to persecute him with unremitting severity.

While he was thus sauntering along, he met a hermit, whose white and venerable beard hung down to his girdle. He held a book in his hand, which he read with great attention. Zadig stopped, and made him a profound obeisance. The hermit returned the compliment with such a noble and engaging air, that Zadig had the curiosity to enter into conversation with him. He asked him what book it was that he had been reading.

“It is the book of destinies,” said the hermit. “Wouldst thou choose to look into it?”

He put the book into the hands of Zadig, who, thoroughly versed as he was in several languages, could not decipher a single character of it. This only redoubled his curiosity.

“Thou seemest,” said the good father, “to be in great distress.”

“Alas!” replied Zadig, “I have but too much reason.”

“If thou wilt permit me to accompany thee,” resumed the old man, “perhaps I may be of some service to thee. I have often poured the balm of consolation into the bleeding heart of the unhappy.”

Zadig felt himself inspired with respect for the dignity, the beard, and the book of the hermit. He found, in the course of the conversation, that he was possessed of superior degrees of knowledge. The hermit talked of fate, of justice, of morals, of the chief good, of human weakness, and of virtue and vice, with such a spirited and moving eloquence, that Zadig felt himself drawn toward him by an irresistible charm. He earnestly entreated the favour of his company till their return to Babylon.

“I ask the same favour of thee,” said the old man. “Swear to me by Oromazes that, whatever I do, thou wilt not leave me for some days.”

Zadig swore, and they set out together. In the evening the two travellers arrived at a superb castle. The hermit entreated a hospitable reception for himself and the young man who accompanied him. The porter, whom one might have mistaken for a great lord, introduced them with a kind of disdainful civility. He presented them to a principal domestic, who showed them his master’s magnificent apartments. They were admitted to the lower end of the table, without being honoured with the least mark of regard by the lord of the castle; but they were served, like the rest, with delicacy and profusion. They were then presented, in a golden basin adorned with emeralds and rubies, with water to wash their hands. At last they were conducted to bed in a beautiful apartment; and in the morning a domestic brought each of them a piece of gold, after which they took their leave and departed.

“The master of the house,” said Zadig, as they were proceeding on their journey, “appears to be a generous man, though somewhat too proud. He nobly performs the duties of hospitality.”

At that instant he observed that a kind of large pocket, which the hermit had, was filled and distended; and upon looking more narrowly, he found that it contained the golden basin adorned with precious stones, which the hermit had stolen. He durst not then take any notice of it; but he was filled with a strange surprise.

About noon the hermit came to the door of a paltry house, inhabited by a rich miser, and begged the favour of a hospitable reception for a few hours. An old servant, in a tattered garb, received them with a blunt and rude air, and led them into the stable, where he gave them some rotten olives, sour wine, and mouldy bread. The hermit ate and drank with as much seeming satisfaction as he had done the evening before, and then addressing himself to the old servant who watched them both to prevent them stealing anything, and had rudely pressed them to depart, he gave him the two pieces of gold he had received in the morning, and thanked him for his great civility.

“Pray,” added he, “allow me to speak to thy master.”

The servant, filled with astonishment, introduced the two travellers.

“Magnificent lord!” said the hermit, “I cannot but return thee my most humble thanks for the noble manner in which thou hast entertained us. Be pleased to accept of this golden basin as a small mark of my gratitude.”

The miser started, and was ready to fall backwards; but the hermit, without giving him time to recover from his surprise, instantly departed with his young fellow traveller.

“Father,” said Zadig, “what is the meaning of all this? Thou seemest to me to be entirely different from other men. Thou stealest a golden basin adorned with precious stones from a lord who received thee magnificently, and givest it to a miser who treats thee with indignity.”

“Son,” replied the old man, “this magnificent lord, who receives strangers only from vanity and ostentation, will hereby be rendered more wise; and the miser will learn to practise the duties of hospitality. Be surprised at nothing, but follow me.”

Zadig knew not as yet whether he was in company with the most foolish or the most prudent of mankind; but the hermit spoke with such an ascendancy that Zadig, who was moreover bound by his oath, could not refuse to follow him.

In the evening they arrived at a house built with equal elegance and simplicity, where nothing savoured either of prodigality or avarice. The master of it was a philosopher who had retired from the world, and who cultivated in peace the study of virtue and wisdom, without any of that rigid and morose severity so commonly found in men of his character. He had chosen to build this fine house in which he received strangers with a generosity free from ostentation. He went himself to meet the two travellers, whom he led into a commodious apartment, and desired them to repose themselves. Soon after he came and invited them to a decent and well ordered repast, during which he spoke with great judgment of the last revolutions in Babylon. He seemed to be strongly attached to the queen and wished that Zadig had appeared in the lists to contend for the crown.

“But the people,” added he, “do not deserve to have such a king as Zadig.”

Zadig blushed and felt his griefs redoubled. They agreed, in the course of the conversation, that the things of this world did not always answer the wishes of the wise. The hermit maintained that the ways of Providence were inscrutable; and that men were in the wrong to judge of a whole, of which they understood but the smallest part. They talked of the passions:

“Ah,” said Zadig, “how fatal are their effects!”

“They are the winds,” replied the hermit, “that swell the sails of the ship; it is true, they sometimes sink her, but without them she could not sail at all. The bile makes us sick and choleric; but without the bile we could not live. Everything in this world is dangerous, and yet everything in it is necessary.” ‘

The conversation turned on pleasure; and the hermit proved that it was a present bestowed by the Deity.

“For,” said he, “man cannot either give himself sensations or ideas; he receives all; and pain and pleasure proceed from a foreign cause as well as his being.”

Zadig was surprised to see a man who had been guilty of such extravagant actions capable of reasoning with so much judgment and propriety. At last, after a conversation equally entertaining and instructive, the host led back his two guests to their apartment, blessing heaven for having sent him two men possessed of so much wisdom and virtue. He offered them money with such an easy and noble air that it could not possibly give any offence. The hermit refused it, and said that he must now take his leave of him, as he proposed to set out for Babylon in the morning before it was light. Their parting was tender. Zadig especially felt himself filled with esteem and affection for a man of such an amiable character.

When he and the hermit were alone in their apartment they spent a long time in praising their host. At break of day the old man awakened his companion.

“We must now depart,” said he; “but while all the family are still asleep, I will leave this man a mark of my esteem and affection.”

So saying he took a candle and set fire to the house. Zadig, struck with horror, cried aloud, and endeavoured to hinder him from committing such a barbarous action; but the hermit drew him away by a superior force, and the house was soon in flames. The hermit, who, with his companion, was already at a considerable distance, looked back to the conflagration with great tranquillity.

“Thanks be to God,” said he, “the house of my dear host is entirely destroyed! Happy man!”

At these words Zadig was at once tempted to burst out in laughing, to reproach the reverend father, to beat him, and to run away. But he did none of all these; for still subdued by the powerful ascendancy of the hermit, he followed him, in spite of himself, to the next stage.

This was at the house of a charitable and virtuous widow, who had a nephew fourteen years of age, a handsome and promising youth, and her only hope. She performed the honours of the house as well as she could. Next day, she ordered her nephew to accompany the strangers to a bridge, which being lately broken down, was become extremely dangerous in passing. The young man walked before them with great alacrity. As they were crossing the bridge, the hermit said to the, youth:

“Come, I must show my gratitude to thy aunt.”

He then took him by the hair, and plunged him into the river. The boy sank, appeared again on the surface of the water, and was swallowed up by the current.

“O monster! O thou most wicked of mankind!” cried Zadig.

“Thou promised to behave with greater patience,” said the hermit, interrupting him. “Know, that under the ruins of that house which Providence hath set on fire, the master hath found an immense treasure; know, that this young man, whose life Providence hath shortened, would have assassinated his aunt in the space of a year, and thee in that of two.”

“Who told thee so, barbarian?” cried Zadig, “and though thou hadst read this event in thy book of destinies, art thou permitted to drown a youth who never did thee any harm?”

While the Babylonian was thus exclaiming, he observed that the old man had no longer a beard, and that his countenance assumed the features and complexion of youth. The hermit’s habit disappeared, and four beautiful wings covered a majestic body resplendent with light.

“O sent of heaven! O divine angel!” cried Zadig, humbly prostrating himself on the ground, “Hast thou then descended from the empyrean to teach a weak mortal to submit to the eternal decrees of Providence?”

“Men,” said the angel Jesrad, “judge of all without knowing anything; and, of all men, thou best deservest to be enlightened.”

Zadig begged to be permitted to speak:

“I distrust myself,” said he, “but may I presume to ask the favour of thee to clear up one doubt that still remains in my mind. Would it not have been better to correct this youth, and make him virtuous, than to drown him?”

“Had he been virtuous,” replied Jesrad, “and enjoyed a longer life, it would have been his fate to be assassinated himself, together with the wife he would have married, and the child he would have had by her.”

“But why,” said Zadig, “is it necessary that there should be crimes and misfortunes, and that these misfortunes should fall on the good?”

“The wicked,” replied Jesrad, “are always unhappy. They serve to prove and try the small number of the just that are scattered throughout the earth; and there is no evil that is not productive of some good.”

“But,” said Zadig, “suppose there was nothing but good, and no evil at all.”

“Then,” replied Jesrad, “this earth would be another earth; the chain of events would be ranged in another order, and directed by wisdom. But this other order, which would be perfect, can exist only in the eternal abode of the Supreme Being, to which no evil can approach. The Deity hath created millions of worlds, among which there is not one that resembles another. This immense variety is the effect of his immense power. There are not two leaves among the trees of the earth, nor two globes in the unlimited expanse of heaven, that are exactly similar; and all that thou seest on the little atom in which thou art born, ought to be, in its proper time and place, according to the immutable decrees of him who comprehends all. Men think that this child, who hath just perished, is fallen into the water by chance, and that it is by the same chance that this house is burned. But there is no such thing as chance. All is either a trial, or a punishment, or a reward, or a foresight. Remember the fisherman, who thought himself the most wretched of mankind. Oromazes sent thee to change his fate. Cease then, frail mortal, to dispute against what thou oughtest to adore.”

“But—” said Zadig

As he pronounced the word “But,” the angel took his flight toward the tenth sphere. Zadig on his knees adored Providence, and submitted. The angel cried to him from on high:

“Direct thy course toward Babylon!”

Chapter XIX. The Enigmas.

Zadig, entranced as it were, and like a man about whose head the thunder had burst, walked at random. He entered Babylon on the very day when those who had fought at the tournaments were assembled in the grand vestibule of the palace to explain the enigmas, and to answer the questions of the grand magus. All the knights were already present, except the knight in green armour. As soon as Zadig appeared in the city the people crowded around him; every eye was fixed on him, every mouth blessed him, and every heart wished him the empire. The envious man saw him pass; he frowned and turned aside. The people conducted him to the place where the assembly was held. The queen, when informed of his arrival, became a prey to the most violent agitations of hope and fear. She was filled with anxiety and apprehension. She could not comprehend why Zadig was without arms, nor why Itobad wore the white armour.

When the knights who had fought were directed to appear in the assembly, Zadig said: “I have fought as well as the other knights, but another here wears my arms; and while I wait for the honour of proving the truth of my assertion, I demand the liberty of presenting myself to explain the enigmas.”

The question was put to vote, and his reputation for probity was so well established that they admitted him without scruple.

The first question proposed by the grand magus was: “What, of all things in the world, is the longest and the shortest, the swiftest and the slowest, the most divisible and the most extended, the most neglected and the most regretted, without which nothing can be done, which devours all that is little, and enlivens all that is great?”

Itobad was to speak. He replied, that so great a man as he did not understand enigmas, and that it was sufficient for him to have conquered by his strength and valour. Some said that the meaning of the enigma was fortune; some, the earth; and others, the light. Zadig said that it was time.

“Nothing,” added he, “is longer, since it is the measure of eternity. Nothing is shorter, since it is insufficient for the accomplishment of our projects. Nothing more slow to him that expects, nothing more rapid to him that enjoys. In greatness it extends to infinity; in smallness it is infinitely divisible. All men neglect it; all regret the loss of it; nothing can be done without it. It consigns to oblivion whatever is unworthy of being transmitted to posterity, and it immortalizes such actions as are truly great.”

The assembly acknowledged that Zadig was in the right.

The next question was: “What is the thing which we receive without thanks, which we enjoy without knowing how, and which we lose without perceiving it?”

Every one gave his own explanation. Zadig alone guessed that it was life, and he explained all the enigmas with the same facility. Itobad always said that nothing was more easy, and that he could have answered them with the same readiness, had he chosen to give himself the trouble. Questions were then proposed on justice, on the sovereign good, and on the art of government. Zadig’s answers were judged to be the most solid, and the people exclaimed:

“What a pity it is that so great a genius should be so bad a knight!”

“Illustrious lords,” said Zadig, “I have had the honour of conquering in the tournaments. It is to me that the white armour belongs. Lord Itobad took possession of it during my sleep. He probably thought it would fit him better than the green.

I am now ready to prove in your presence, with my gown and sword, against all that beautiful white armour which he took from me, that it is I who have had the honour of conquering the brave Otamus.”

Itobad accepted the challenge with the greatest confidence. He never doubted but that, armed as he was with a helmet, a cuirass, and brassarts, he would obtain an easy victory over a champion in a cap and a night-gown. Zadig drew his sword, saluting the queen, who looked at him with a mixture of fear and joy. Itobad drew his, without saluting any one. He rushed upon Zadig like a man who had nothing to fear; he was ready to cleave him in two. Zadig knew how to ward off his blows, by opposing the strongest part of his sword to the weakest of that of his adversary, in such a manner that Itobad’s sword was broken. Upon which Zadig, seizing his enemy by the waist, threw him on the ground; and fixing the point of his sword at the extremity of his breast-plate, exclaimed: “Suffer thyself to be disarmed, or thou art a dead man.”

Itobad, greatly surprised at the disgrace that happened to such a man as he, was obliged to yield to Zadig, who took from him, with great composure, his magnificent helmet, his superb cuirass, his fine brassarts, his shining cuisses; clothed himself with them, and in this dress ran to throw himself at the feet of Astarte. Cador easily proved that the armour belonged to Zadig. He was acknowledged king by the unanimous consent of the whole nation, and especially by that of Astarte, who, after so many calamities, now tasted the exquisite pleasure of seeing her lover worthy, in the eyes of the world, to be her husband. Itobad went home, to be called lord in his own house. Zadig was king, and was happy. He recollected what the angel Jesrad had said to him. He even remembered the grain of sand that became a diamond. He sent in search of the robber Arbogad, to whom he gave an honourable post in his army, promising to advance him to the first dignities if he behaved like a true warrior, and threatening to hang him if he followed the profession of a robber.

Setoc, with the fair Almona, was called from the heart of Arabia, and placed at the head of the commerce of Babylon. Cador was preferred and distinguished according to his great services. He was the friend of the king, and the king was then the only monarch on earth that had a friend. The little mute was not forgotten. A fine house was given to the fisherman, and Orcan was condemned to pay him a large sum of money, and to restore him his wife; but the fisherman, who had now become wise, took only the money.

The beautiful Semira could not be comforted for having believed that Zadig would be blind of an eye; nor did Azora cease to lament her attempt to cut off his nose; their griefs, however, he softened by his presents. The capricious beauty, Missouf, was left unnoticed. The envious man died of rage and shame. The empire enjoyed peace, glory and plenty. This was the happiest age of the earth. It was governed by love and justice. The people blessed Zadig, and Zadig blessed heaven.

The End

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