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-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of delicacy. I find you all—permit me the expression—gravelled. A marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The union of two souls, and, what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is an obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it but a word? O my friend (to Goriot), you whom I single out as the victim of the same noble failings with myself of pride of birth, of pride of honesty—O my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your dishevelled daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die, you will recall with pride this amiable weakness.
Goriot. I shan’t, and what’s more I wun’t. (Charles and Ernestine lead him up stage, protesting. All rise except Notary.)
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. Bitten! Bertrand. Sold again! | } | Aside. |
Goriot (taking the stage). But, look ’ee here, he can’t marry.