Marcaire. It’s a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old hopes, my old paternal tenderness.
Dumont. What? is he not your son?
Marcaire. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I will not seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned his gold. It was thirty thousand.
Dumont. Noble soul!
Marcaire. One has a heart.... He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke, of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my father’s heart a voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish? The voice said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to begone.
Dumont. To begone? to go?
Marcaire. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to creep forth myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies of heaven and the rebuffs of the police.
Dumont. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, noble man!
Marcaire. One has a heart ... and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry without a farthing and leave my offspring to wallow—literally—among millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass.
Dumont. But I had thought ... I had fancied....