MARQUIS (_to_ DUMONT). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come (_producing notes from breast-pocket_) equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be generous. Can you not guess?
DUMONT. Not I, my lord.
MARQUIS (_repeating_). 'Preserve this letter,' etc.
MACAIRE. Bitten.
BERTRAND. Sold again (_aside_). (_A pause_.)
ALINE. Well, I never did!
DUMONT. Two fathers!
MARQUIS. Two? Impossible.
DUMONT. Not at all. This is the other.
MARQUIS. This man?
MACAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father; Charles, to my arms! (CHARLES _backs_.)
DUMONT. He knew the letter.
MARQUIS. Well, but so did I.
CURATE. The judgment of Solomon.
GORIOT. What did I tell 'ee? he can't marry.
ERNESTINE. Couldn't they both consent?
MARQUIS. But he's my living image.
MACAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine.
MARQUIS. My figure, I think?
MACAIRE. Ah, Charles, Charles!
CURATE. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont's.
DUMONT. Come to look at him, he's really like Goriot.
ERNESTINE. O papa, I hope he's not my brother.
GORIOT. What be talking of? I tell 'ee, he's like our Curate.
CHARLES. Gentlemen, my head aches.
MARQUIS. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature. Look at me, my son.
MACAIRE. Nay, Charles, but look at me.
CHARLES. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination for either.
MARQUIS. Another thought: what was his mother's name?
MACAIRE. What was the name of his mother by you?
MARQUIS. Sir, you are silenced.
MACAIRE. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise his sainted mother.
MARQUIS. A thought: twins might explain it: had you not two foundlings?
DUMONT. Nay, sir, one only; and judging by the miseries of this evening, I should say, thank God!
MACAIRE. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is only a father that can understand a father's heart. Bertrand, follow the members of my family. (_They troop out_, _L. U. E. and R. U. E._, _the fiddlers playing_. _Air_: '_O dear_, _what can the matter be_?')
SCENE IV
MACAIRE, MARQUIS
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. My lord, I feel for you. (_Business_. _They sit_, _R._)
MARQUIS. And now, sir?
MACAIRE. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE (_touching him on the breast_). You have there thirty thousand francs.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my lord: that I who, for all you know, may be the father of your son, should have nothing; and that you who, for all I know, may be the father of mine, should be literally bulging with bank notes. . . . Where do you keep them at night?
MARQUIS. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious.
MACAIRE. Admirably so! I applaud the device.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Do you snuff, my lord?