plays [76]
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'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.
DUMONT. O dear, O dear! }
ALINE. What spoil the wedding? } TOGETHER.
ERNESTINE. O father! }
CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not - }
GORIOT (EXASPERATED). I wun't, and what's more I shan't.
NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear?
DUMONT. Goriot, do let's have happy faces!
GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!!
CURATE. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist,
light may be obtained.
ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary!
DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage?
NOTARY. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two
constracting parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I
make myself clear?
ALINE. Poor lamb!
CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to
misconstruction.
MACAIRE (TAKING THE STAGE). As an entire stranger in this
painful scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to
interject one word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure,
of pleasing qualities; here the young maiden, by her own
confession bashfully consenting to the match; there sits that
dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like myself, his own
now dimmed with sorrow; and here - (may I be allowed to add?) -
here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself
the slave of duty. Last you have me - Baron Henri-Frederic de
Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of
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'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.
DUMONT. O dear, O dear! }
ALINE. What spoil the wedding? } TOGETHER.
ERNESTINE. O father! }
CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not - }
GORIOT (EXASPERATED). I wun't, and what's more I shan't.
NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear?
DUMONT. Goriot, do let's have happy faces!
GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!!
CURATE. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist,
light may be obtained.
ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary!
DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage?
NOTARY. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two
constracting parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I
make myself clear?
ALINE. Poor lamb!
CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to
misconstruction.
MACAIRE (TAKING THE STAGE). As an entire stranger in this
painful scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to
interject one word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure,
of pleasing qualities; here the young maiden, by her own
confession bashfully consenting to the match; there sits that
dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like myself, his own
now dimmed with sorrow; and here - (may I be allowed to add?) -
here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself
the slave of duty. Last you have me - Baron Henri-Frederic de
Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of