ALINE. What makes you fancy that?
MACAIRE. Heavens, am I blind?
ALINE. Well, then, I wish I was.
MACAIRE. I take you at the word: have me.
ALINE. You will never be hanged for modesty.
MACAIRE. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich and nobly born, 'tis but a clog. I love you. What is your name?
ALINE. Guess again, and you'll guess wrong. (_Enter the other servants with wine baskets_.) Here, set the wine down. No, that is the old Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen must put up with a different bin. (_Setting wine before_ MACAIRE _and_ BERTRAND, _who are at table_, _L._)
MACAIRE (_drinking_). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove!
BERTRAND. Sold again!
MACAIRE. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (_Before the servants he exchanges the bottle for the one in front of_ DUMONT'S _place at the head of the other table_.) Was it well done?
BERTRAND. Immense.
MACAIRE (_emptying his glass into_ BERTRAND'S). There, Bertrand, you may finish that. Ha! music?
SCENE VII
_To these_, _from the inn_, _L. U. E._, DUMONT, CHARLES, the CURATE, the NOTARY jigging: from the inn, _R. U. E._, FIDDLERS playing and dancing; and through door L. C., GORIOT, ERNESTINE, PEASANTS, dancing likewise.
Air: 'Haste to the Wedding.' As the parties meet, the music ceases
DUMONT. Welcome, neighbours! welcome friends! Ernestine, here is my Charles, no longer mine. A thousand welcomes. O the gay day! O the auspicious wedding! (CHARLES, ERNESTINE, DUMONT, GORIOT, CURATE, _and_ NOTARY _sit to the wedding feast_; PEASANTS, FIDDLERS, _and_ MAIDS, _grouped at back_, _drinking from the barrel_.) O, I must have all happy around me.
GORIOT. Then help the soup.
DUMONT. Give me leave: I must have all happy. Shall these poor gentlemen upon a day like this drink ordinary wine? Not so: I shall drink it. (_To_ MACAIRE, _who is just about to fill his glass_) Don't touch it, sir! Aline, give me that gentleman's bottle and take him mine: with old Dumont's compliments.
MACAIRE. What?
BERTRAND. Change the bottle?
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten!
BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again.
DUMONT. Yes, all shall be happy.
GORIOT. I tell 'ee, help the soup!
DUMONT (_begins to help soup_. _Then_, _dropping ladle_.) One word: a matter of detail: Charles is not my son. (_All exclaim_.) O no, he is not my son. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before.
CHARLES. I am not your son, sir?
DUMONT. O no, far from it.
GORIOT. Then who the devil's son be he?
DUMONT. O, I don't know. It's an odd tale, a romantic tale: it may amuse you. It was twenty years ago, when I kept the _Golden Head_ at Lyons: Charles was left upon my doorstep in a covered basket, with sufficient money to support the child till he should come of age. There was no mark upon the linen, nor any clue but one: an unsigned letter from the father of the child, which he strictly charged me to preserve. It was to prove his identity: he, of course, would know the contents, and he only; so I keep it safe in the third compartment of my cash-box, with the ten thousand francs I've saved for his dowry. Here is the key; it's a patent key. To-day the poor boy is twenty-one, to-morrow to be married.
I did perhaps hope the father would appear: there was a Marquis coming; he wrote me for a room; I gave him the best, Number Thirteen, which you have all heard of: I did hope it might be he, for a Marquis, you know, is always genteel. But no, you see. As for me, I take you all to witness I'm as innocent of him as the babe unborn.
MACAIRE. Ahem! I think you said the linen bore an M?
DUMONT. Pardon me: the markings were cut off.
MACAIRE. True. The basket white, I think?
DUMONT. Brown, brown.
MACAIRE. Ah! brown-a whitey-brown.
GORIOT. I tell 'ee what, Dumont, this is all very well; but in that case, I'll be danged if he gets my daater. (_General consternation_.)
DUMONT. O Goriot, let's have happy faces!
GORIOT. Happy faces be danged! I want to marry my daater; I want your son. But who be this? I don't know, and you don't know, and he don't know. He may be anybody; by Jarge, he may be nobody! (_Exclamations_.)
CURATE. The situation is crepuscular.
ERNESTINE. Father, and Mr. Dumont (and you too, Charles), I wish to say one word. You gave us leave to fall in love; we fell in love; and as for me, my father, I will either marry Charles, or die a maid.
CHARLES. And you, sir, would you rob me in one day of both a father and a wife?
DUMONT (_weeping_). Happy faces, happy faces!
GORIOT. I know nothing about robbery; but she cannot marry without my consent, and that she cannot get.
(_All speak together_ . . .
DUMONT. O dear, O dear!
ALINE. What spoil the wedding?
ERNESTINE. O father!
CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not-
GORIOT (_exasperated_). I wun't, and what's more I shan't.