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?
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?