DUMONT (_front R._, _shaking hands with_ MACAIRE). Sir, you have a noble nature. (MACAIRE _picks his pocket_.) Dear me, dear me, and you are rich. MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here, the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and between my simple manhood and the infinite these rags are all. DUMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless. For I, too, have delicacy: I understand you could not stoop to take a gift. MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never! DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer. MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten. BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again. GORIOT (_taking the stage_). But, look’ee here, he can’t marry. (_All speak together_ . . . MACAIRE. Hey? DUMONT. Ah! ALINE. Hey day! CURATE. Wherefore? ERNESTINE. Oh! CHARLES. Ah! . . . ) GORIOT. Not without his veyther’s consent! And he hasn’t got it; and what’s more, he can’t get it: and what’s more, he hasn’t got a veyther to get it from. It’s the law of France. ALINE. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself. ERNESTINE. O, couldn’t we ask the Notary again? CURATE. Indubitably you may ask him. (_All speak together_ . . . MACAIRE. Can’t they marry? DUMONT. Can’t he marry? ALINE. Can’t she marry? ERNESTINE. Can’t we marry? CHARLES. Can’t I marry? GORIOT. Bain’t I right? . . . ) NOTARY. Constracting parties. CURATE. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more perspicuous. GORIOT. Ay, before he’ve time to get at it. NOTARY. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by applying justice of peace might afford relief. (_All speak together_ . . . MACAIRE. Bravo! DUMONT. Excellent! CHARLES. Let’s go at once! ALINE. The very thing! . . . ) ERNESTINE. Yes, this minute! GORIOT. I’ll go. I don’t mind getting advice, but I wun’t take it.