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.
Charles. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination for either.
Marquis. Another thought: what was his mother’s name?
Macaire. What was the name of his mother by you?
Marquis. Sir, you are silenced.
Macaire. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise his sainted mother.