)

DUMONT. He knew the letter.

MARQUIS. Well, 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.

MARCAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine.

MARQUIS. My figure, I think?

MARCAIRE. 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, 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?

MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not.

MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man.

MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that?

MACAIRE. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy
them; or, at least, it takes a gr