Macaire. Ah, Charles, Charles!
Curate. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont’s.
Dumont. Come to look at him, he’s really like Goriot.
Ernestine. O papa, I hope he’s not my brother.
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. Look 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?