MACAIRE. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, invincible in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty.
BERTRAND. No!
MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that God's noblest work. He carries the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I'd three hundred a year, I'd be honest to-morrow.
BERTRAND. Ah! Don't you wish you may get it!
MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own-the longest odds I can imagine-that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap through history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic and immortal.
SCENE II
_To these_, _all the former characters_, _less the_ NOTARY. _The fiddles are heard without_, _playing dolefully_. _Air_: '_O dear_, _what can the matter be_?' _in time to which the procession enters_
MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?
(_All speak together_ . . .
ALINE. No wedding, no wedding!
GORIOT. I told 'ee he can't and he can't.
DUMONT. Dear, dear me!
ERNESTINE. They won't let us marry.
CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing!
CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the Notary.
MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself.
DUMONT. God bless me, no!
MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (_to the others_) prepare a smiling countenance. (_Repeating_.) 'Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father.-Your Unknown Benefactor.'
DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!
CHARLES. Good Lord! (_General consternation_.)
BERTRAND (_aside_: _smiling his brow_). I see it now; sublime!
CURATE. A highly singular eventuality.
GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun't. (_Goes up_.)
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business_.) Ernestine, your second father waits to welcome you. (_Business_.) Goriot, noble old man, I grasp your hand. (_He doesn't_.) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (_A dead Pause_.) Charles, to my arms!
CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I hope-er-in the course of time-I hope that may be somewhat mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont-
MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not returned to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. (_A dead pause_.) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that I fancied when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted mother.
CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your poverty.
MACAIRE. Nay, nay-more welcome, more welcome. O, I know your-(_business_) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political . . .
Dumont, what are your politics?
DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord.
MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot?
GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I sought to found combined the peculiarities of both: a patriotic enterprise in which I fell. This humble fellow . . . have I introduced him? You behold in us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands with my family. (BERTRAND _is rebuffed by one and the other in dead silence_.)
BERTRAND. Sold again!
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business_.)
ERNESTINE. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, cannot the marriage go on?
MACAIRE. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my knees.
GORIOT. Be you that young man's veyther?
MACAIRE. Ay, and what a father!
GORIOT. Then all I've got to say is, I shan't and I wun't.
MACAIRE. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend me a good suit? (_Business_.)
SCENE III
_To these_, _the_ MARQUIS, _L. C._
MARQUIS. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?
DUMONT. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.
MARQUIS. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la Cherte de Medoc.
(_Sensation_.)
MACAIRE. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.