Chapter 126

_MARCAIRE, to whom BERTRAND. Afterwards DUMONT_

BERTRAND. Well?

MARCAIRE. Bitten!

BERTRAND. Sold again!

MARCAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer-match! But what can gods or men against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man?

DUMONT (_entering_). I hear you want me.

MARCAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.

DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong?

MARCAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?

DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.

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....

MARCAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own interest--I mean, for his interest--no, I mean, for his own--well, anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.

DUMONT. Noble, O noble! \ > _Together: eachshaking him by BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! / the hand._

DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at once.

BERTRAND. At once, at once!

MACAIRE (_aside to BERTRAND_). Hang on. (_Aloud._) Charles, Charles, my lost boy! (_He falls weeping at L. table. DUMONT enters the office and brings down cash-box to table R. He feels in all his pockets: BERTRAND from behind him making signs to MACAIRE, which the latter does not see._)

DUMONT. That's strange. I can't find the key. It's a patent key.

BERTRAND (_behind DUMONT, making signs to MACAIRE_). The key, he can't find the key.

MACAIRE. O, yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (_Drops key._) And here it is before my eyes.

DUMONT. That? That's yours. I saw it drop.

MACAIRE. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five minutes back.

DUMONT. But I saw it.

MACAIRE. Impossible. It must be yours.

DUMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket?

MACAIRE. Bitten! (_Aside._)

BERTRAND. Sold again! (_Aside_) ... You forget, Baron, it's the key of my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my pocket.

MACAIRE. True, true; and that explains.

DUMONT. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It's a patent key. You heard it drop.

MACAIRE. Distinctly.

BERTRAND. So I did: distinctly.

DUMONT. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come here and look for my key!