Bertrand (aside; smiting 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.
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?