CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your poverty. MACAIRE. Nay, nay--more welcome, more welcome. O, I know your--(_business_) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political.... Dumont, what are your politics? DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord. MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot? GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater. MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I sought to found combined the peculiarities of both; a patriotic enterprise in which I fell. This humble fellow ... have I introduced him? You behold in us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands with my family. (_BERTRAND is rebuffed by one and the other in dead silence._) BERTRAND. Sold again! MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business._) ERNESTINE. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, cannot the marriage go on? MACAIRE. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my knees. GORIOT. Be you that young man's veyther? MACAIRE. Ay, and what a father! GORIOT. Then all I've got to say is, I shan't and I wun't. MACAIRE. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend me a good suit? (_Business._) SCENE III _To these, the MARQUIS, L.C._ MARQUIS. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons? DUMONT. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal. MARQUIS. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la Cherte de Medoc. (_Sensation._) MARCAIRE. Marquis, delighted, I am sure. MARQUIS (_to DUMONT_). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come (_producing notes from breast-pocket_) equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be generous. Can you not guess? DUMONT. Not I, my lord. MARQUIS (_repeating_). "Preserve this letter," etc. MARCAIRE. Bitten! BERTRAND. Sold again! (_Aside._) (_A pause._) ALINE. Well, I never did! DUMONT. Two fathers! MARQUIS. Two? Impossible. DUMONT. Not at all. This is the other. MARQUIS. This man? MARCAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father. Charles, to my arms! (_CHARLES backs._) 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.