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. Bitten! \
> _Aside._
BERTRAND. 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'