MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that God’s noblest work. He carries the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I’d three hundred a year, I’d be honest to-morrow. BERTRAND. Ah! Don’t you wish you may get it! MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own—the longest odds I can imagine—that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap through history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic and immortal. SCENE II _To these_, _all the former characters_, _less the_ NOTARY. _The fiddles are heard without_, _playing dolefully_. _Air_: ‘_O dear_, _what can the matter be_?’ _in time to which the procession enters_ MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer? (_All speak together_ . . . ALINE. No wedding, no wedding! GORIOT. I told ’ee he can’t and he can’t. DUMONT. Dear, dear me! ERNESTINE. They won’t let us marry. CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing! . . . ) CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the Notary. MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself. DUMONT. God bless me, no! MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (_to the others_) prepare a smiling countenance. (_Repeating_.) ‘Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father.—Your Unknown Benefactor.’ DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father! CHARLES. Good Lord! (_General consternation_.) BERTRAND (_aside_: _smiling his brow_). I see it now; sublime! CURATE. A highly singular eventuality. GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun’t. (_Goes up_.) MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business_.) Ernestine, your second father waits to welcome you. (_Business_.) Goriot, noble old man, I grasp your hand. (_He doesn’t_.) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (_A dead Pause_.) Charles, to my arms! CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I hope—er—in the course of time—I hope that may be somewhat mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont— MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not returned to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. (_A dead pause_.) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that I fancied when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted mother. CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your poverty.