MACAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own interest—I mean, for his interest—no, I mean, for his own—well, anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest. (_Together_: _each shaking him by the hand_ . . . DUMONT. Noble, O noble! BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! . . .) DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at once. BERTRAND. At once, at once! MACAIRE (_aside to_ BERTRAND). Hang on. (_Aloud_.) Charles, Charles, my lost boy! (_He falls weeping at L. table_. DUMONT _enters the office_, _and brings down cash-box to table R._ _He feels in all his pockets_: BERTRAND _from behind him making signs to_ MACAIRE, _which the latter does not see_.) DUMONT. That’s strange. I can’t find the key. It’s a patent key. BERTRAND (_behind_ DUMONT, _making signs to_ MACAIRE). The key, he can’t find the key. MACAIRE. O yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (_Drops key_.) And here it is before my eyes. DUMONT. That? That’s yours. I saw it drop. MACAIRE. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five minutes back. DUMONT. But I saw it. MACAIRE. Impossible. It must be yours. DUMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket? MACAIRE. Bitten. (_Aside_.) BERTRAND. Sold again (_aside_) . . . You forget, Baron, it’s the key of my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my pocket. MACAIRE. True, true; and that explains. DUMONT. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It’s a patent key. You heard it drop. MACAIRE. Distinctly. BERTRAND. So I did: distinctly. DUMONT. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come here and look for my key! SCENE VI _To these with candles_, _all the former characters_, _except_ FIDDLERS, PEASANTS, _and_ NOTARY. _They hunt for the key_ DUMONT. It’s bound to be here. We all heard it drop. MARQUIS (_with_ BERTRAND’S _bundle_). Is this it? ALL (_with fury_). No. BERTRAND. Hands off, that’s my luggage. (_Hunt resumed_.) DUMONT. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard anything. MARQUIS. By the way (_all start up_), what are we looking for? ALL (_with fury_). O!! DUMONT. Will you have the kindness to find my key? (_Hunt resumed_.) CURATE. What description of a key— DUMONT. A patent, patent, patent, patent key! MACAIRE. I have it. Here it is! ALL (_with relief_). Ah!! DUMONT. That? What do you mean? That’s yours. MACAIRE. Pardon me. DUMONT. It is. MACAIRE. It isn’t. DUMONT. I tell you it is: look at that twisted handle. MACAIRE. It can’t be mine, and so it must be yours.