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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

Kit. No, sir; I never saw him till to-night.

Gaunt. Then, if you must stand the justice of your country, come to the proof with a better plea. What? lantern and cutlass yours; you the one that knew the house; you the one that saw; you the one overtaken and denounced; and you spin me a galley yarn like that? If that is all your defence, you’ll hang, sir, hang.

Arethusa. Ah!.. Father, I give him up: I will never see him, never speak to him, never think of him again; I take him from my heart; I give myself wholly up to you and to my mother; I will obey you in every point – O, not at a word merely – at a finger raised! I will do all this; I will do anything – anything you bid me; I swear it in the face of heaven. Only – Kit! I love him, father, I love him. Let him go.

Gaunt. Go?

Arethusa. You let the other. Open the door again for my sake, father – in my mother’s name – O, open the door and let him go.

Kit. Let me go? My girl, if you had cast me out this morning, good and well: I would have left you, though it broke my heart. But it’s a changed story now; now I’m down on my luck, and you come and stab me from behind. I ask no favour, and I’ll take none; I stand here on my innocence, and God helping me I’ll clear my good name, and get your love again, if it’s love worth having. Now, Captain Gaunt, I’ve said my say, and you may do your pleasure. I am my father’s son, and I never feared to face the truth.

Gaunt. You have spoken like a man, French, and you may go. I leave you free.

Kit. Nay, sir, not so: not with my will. I’m accused and counted guilty; the proofs are against me; the girl I love has turned upon me. I’ll accept no mercy at your hands. Captain Gaunt, I am your prisoner.

Arethusa. Kit, dear Kit —

Gaunt. Silence! Young man, I have offered you liberty without bond or condition. You refuse. You shall be judged. Meanwhile (opening the door, R.), you will go in here. I keep your cutlass. The night brings counsel: to-morrow shall decide. (He locks Kit in, leaving the key in the door.)

SCENE V

Gaunt, Arethusa, afterwards Pew

Arethusa. Father, you believe in him; you do; I know you do.

Gaunt. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will pray and sleep upon this matter. (A knocking at the door, C.) Who knocks so late? (He opens.)

Pew (entering). Cap’n, shall I fetch the constable?

Gaunt. No.

Pew. No? Have ye killed him?

Gaunt. My man, I’ll see you into the road. (He takes Pew by the arm, and goes out with him.)

SCENE VI

Arethusa

Arethusa. (Listens; then running to door, R.) Kit – dearest Kit! wait! I will come to you soon. (Gaunt re-enters, C., as the drop falls.)

ACT IV

The Stage represents the Admiral’s house, as in Acts I. and III. A chair, L., in front. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. Enter Arethusa, L., with candle; she lights another; and passes to door, R., which she unbolts. Stage light

SCENE I

Arethusa, Kit

Arethusa. Come, dear Kit, come!

Kit. Well, I’m here.

Arethusa. O Kit, you are not angry with me.

Kit. Have I reason to be pleased?

Arethusa. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me.

Kit. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it kindly; but there are some kindnesses a man would rather die than take a gift of. When a man is accused, Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows – it’s the shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the way to help was to stand to your belief. You should have nailed my colours to the mast, not spoke of striking them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, and your love there, and a free pardon and a dukedom on the other side – which would I choose?

Arethusa. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was not my life that was at stake, it was yours. Had it been mine – mine, Kit – what had you done, then?

Kit. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out. Why, give you up, by George!

Arethusa. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It was all pure love. When he said that word – O! death and that disgrace!.. But I know my father. He fears nothing so much as the goodness of his heart; and yet it conquers. He would pray, he said; and to-night, and by the kindness of his voice, I knew he was convinced already. All that is wanted is that you should forgive me.

Kit. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I’d forgive you piracy on the high seas. I was only sulky; I was boxed up there in the black dark, and couldn’t see my hand. It made me pity that blind man, by George.

Arethusa. O, that blind man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: did you hear him? he thought we had killed you – you!

Kit. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping company with such a swab.

Arethusa. One thing puzzles me: how did you get in? I saw my father lock the door.

Kit. Ah, how? That’s just it. I was a sheet in the wind, you see. How did we? He did it somehow… By George, he had a key! He can get in again.

Arethusa. Again? that man!

Kit. Ay can he! Again! When he likes!

Arethusa. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father.

Kit. Afraid. I’m glad of that. Now, you’ll see I’m worth my salt at something. Ten to one he’s back to Mrs. Drake’s. I’ll after, and lay him aboard.

Arethusa. O Kit, he is too strong for you.

Kit. Arethusa, that’s below the belt! Never you fear; I’ll give a good account of him.

Arethusa (taking cutlass from wall). You’ll be none the worse for this, dear.

Kit. That’s so (making cuts). All the same, I’m half ashamed to draw on a blind man; it’s too much odds. (He leans suddenly against the table.) Ah!

Arethusa. Kit! are you ill?

Kit. My head’s like a humming top; it serves me right for drinking.

Arethusa. Oh, and the blind man! (She runs, L., to the corner cupboard, brings a bottle and glass, and fills and offers glass.) Here, lad, drink that.

Kit. To you! That’s better. (Bottle and glass remain on Gaunt’s table.)

Arethusa. Suppose you miss him?

Kit. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can hear the tap-tapping of that stick a mile away.

Arethusa (listening). ’St! my father stirring in his room!

Kit. Let me get clear; tell him why when I’m gone. The door – ?

Arethusa. Locked!

Kit. The window!

Arethusa. Quick, quick! (She unfastens R. window, by which Kit goes out.)

SCENE II

Arethusa, Gaunt entering L

Arethusa. Father, Kit is gone… He is asleep.

Gaunt. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, they go so heavily, my Hester still waiting! (He goes R. to chest, which he opens.) That is your chain; it’s of Guinea gold; I brought it you from Guinea. (Taking out chain.) You liked it once; it pleased you long ago; O, why not now – why will you not be happy now?.. I swear this is my last voyage; see, I lay my hand upon the Holy Book and swear it. One more venture – for the child’s sake, Hester; you don’t think upon your little maid.

Arethusa. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake!

Gaunt. Ten days out from Lagos. That’s a strange sunset, Mr. Yeo. All hands shorten sail! Lay aloft there, look smart!.. What’s that? Only the negroes in the hold… Mr. Yeo, she can’t live long at this; I have a wife and child in Barnstaple… Christ, what a sea! Hold on, for God’s sake – hold on fore and aft! Great God! (as though the sea were making a breach over the ship at the moment).

Arethusa. O!

Gaunt. They seem quieter down below there… No water – no light – no air – seven days battened down, and the seas mountain high, and the ship labouring hell-deep! Two hundred and five, two hundred and five, two hundred and five – all to eternal torture!

Arethusa. O pity him, pity him! Let him sleep, let him forget! Let her prayers avail in heaven, and let him rest!

Gaunt. Hester, no, don’t smile at me. Rather tears! I have seen you weep – often, often; two hundred and five times. Two hundred and five! (With ring.) Hester, here is your ring (he tries to put the ring on his finger). How comes it in my hand? Not fallen off again? O no, impossible! it was made smaller, dear, it can’t have fallen off! Ah, you waste away. You must live, you must, for the dear child’s sake, for mine, Hester, for mine! Ah, the child. Yes. Who am I to judge? Poor Kit French! And she, your little maid, she’s like you, Hester, and she will save him! How should a man be saved without a wife?

Arethusa. O father, if you could but hear me thank and bless you! (The tapping of Pew’s stick is heard approaching. Gaunt passes L. front and sits.)

Gaunt (beginning to count the taps). One – two – two hundred and five —

Arethusa (listening). God help me, the blind man! (She runs to door, C.; the key is put into the lock from without, and the door opens.)

SCENE III

Arethusa (at back of stage by the door); Gaunt (front L.); to these, Pew, C

Pew (sotto voce). All snug. (Coming down.) So that was you, my young friend Christopher, as shot by me on the road; and so you was hot foot after old Pew? Christopher, my young friend, I reckon I’ll have the bowels out of that chest, and I reckon, you’ll be lagged and scragged for it. (At these words Arethusa locks the door, and takes the key.) What’s that? All still. There’s something wrong about this room. Pew, my ’art of oak, you’re queer to-night; brace up and carry on. Where’s the tool? (Producing knife.) Ah, here she is; and now for the chest; and the gold; and rum – rum – rum. What! Open?.. old clothes, by God!.. He’s done me; he’s been before me; he’s bolted with the swag; that’s why he ran: Lord wither and waste him forty year for it! O Christopher, if I had my fingers on your throat! Why didn’t I strangle the soul out of him? I heard the breath squeak in his weasand; and Jack Gaunt pulled me off. Ah, Jack, that’s another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was God Almighty for five minutes! (Gaunt rises and begins to pace the stage like a quarter-deck, L.) What’s that? A man’s walk. He don’t see me, thank the blessed dark! But it’s time to slip, my bo. (He gropes his way stealthily till he comes to Gaunt’s table, where he burns his hand in the candle.) A candle – lighted – then it’s bright as day! Lord God, doesn’t he see me? It’s the horrors come alive. (Gaunt draws near and turns away.) I’ll go mad, mad! (He gropes to the door, stopping and starting.) Door. (His voice rising for the first time, sharp with terror.) Locked? Key gone? Trapped! Keep off – keep off of me – keep away! (Sotto voce again.) Keep your head, Lord have mercy, keep your head. I’m wet with sweat. What devil’s den is this? I must out – out! (He shakes the door vehemently.) No? Knife it is, then – knife – knife – knife! (He moves with the knife raised towards Gaunt, intently listening and changing his direction as Gaunt changes his position on the stage.)

Arethusa (rushing to intercept him). Father, father, wake!

Gaunt. Hester, Hester! (He turns, in time to see Arethusa grapple Pew in the centre of the stage, and Pew force her down.)

Arethusa. Kit! Kit!

Pew (with the knife raised). Pew’s way!

SCENE IV

To these, Kit

(He leaps through window, R., and cuts Pew down. At the same moment, Gaunt, who has been staring helplessly at his daughter’s peril, fully awakes.)

Gaunt. Death and blood! (Kit, helping Arethusa, has let fall the cutlass. Gaunt picks it up and runs on Pew.) Damned mutineer, I’ll have your heart out! (He stops, stands staring, drops cutlass, falls upon his knees.) God forgive me! Ah, foul sins, would you blaze forth again? Lord, close your ears! Hester, Hester, hear me not! Shall all these years and tears be unavailing?

Arethusa. Father, I am not hurt.

Gaunt. Ay, daughter, but my soul – my lost soul!

Pew (rising on his elbow). Rum? You’ve done me. For God’s sake, rum. (Arethusa pours out a glass, which Kit gives to him.) Rum? This ain’t rum; it’s fire! (With great excitement.) What’s this? I don’t like rum? (Feebly.) Ay, then, I’m a dead man, and give me water.

Gaunt. Now even his sins desert him.

Pew (drinking water). Jack Gaunt, you’ve always been my rock ahead. It’s thanks to you I’ve got my papers, and this time I’m shipped for Fiddler’s Green. Admiral, we ain’t like to meet again, and I’ll give you a toast; Here’s Fiddler’s Green, and damn all lubbers! (Seizing Gaunt’s arm.) I say – fair dealings, Jack! – none of that heaven business: Fiddler’s Green’s my port, now, ain’t it?

Gaunt. David, you’ve hove short up, and God forbid that I deceive you. Pray, man, pray; for in the place to which you are bound there is no mercy and no hope.

Pew. Ay, my lass, you’re black, but your blood’s red, and I’m all a-muck with it. Pass the rum, and be damned to you (Trying to sing) —

 
“Time for us to go,
Time for us – ”
 

(He dies.)

Gaunt. But for the grace of God, there lies John Gaunt! Christopher, you have saved my child; and I, I, that was blinded with self-righteousness, have fallen. Take her, Christopher; but O, walk humbly!

MACAIRE

A MELODRAMATIC FARCE IN THREE ACTS

PERSONS REPRESENTED

Robert Macaire

Bertrand

Dumont, Landlord of the “Auberge des Adrets”

Charles, a Gendarme, Dumont’s supposed Son

Goriot

The Marquis, Charles’s Father

The Brigadier of Gendarmerie

The Curate

The Notary

A Waiter

Ernestine, Goriot’s Daughter

Aline

Maids, Peasants (Male and Female), Gendarmes

The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the “Auberge des Adrets,” on the frontier of France and Savoy. The time 1820. The Action occupies an interval of from twelve to fourteen hours; from four in the afternoon till about five in the morning

Note. —The time between the acts should be as brief as possible, and the piece played, where it is merely comic, in a vein of patter

ACT I

The Stage represents the courtyard of the “Auberge des Adrets.” It is surrounded by the buildings of the inn, with a gallery on the first story, approached, C., by a straight flight of stairs. L.C., the entrance doorway. A little in front of this, a small grated office, containing business table, brass-bound cabinet, and portable cash-box. In front, R. and L., tables and benches; one, L., partially laid for a considerable party

SCENE I

Aline and Maids; to whom, Fiddlers; afterwards Dumont and Charles. As the curtain rises, the sound of the violins is heard approaching. Aline and the inn servants, who are discovered laying the table, dance up to door L.C., to meet the Fiddlers, who enter likewise dancing to their own music. Air: “Haste to the Wedding.” The Fiddlers exeunt playing into house, R.U.E. Aline and Maids dance back to table, which they proceed to arrange

Aline. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding feast. It tickles your heart till your heels make a runaway match of it. I don’t mind extra work, I don’t, so long as there’s fun about it. Hand me up that pile of plates. The quinces there, before the bride. Stick a pink in the Notary’s glass: that’s the girl he’s courting.

Dumont (entering; with Charles). Good girls, good girls! Charles, in ten minutes from now what happy faces will smile around that board!

Charles. Sir, my good fortune is complete; and most of all in this, that my happiness has made my father happy.

Dumont. Your father? Ah, well, upon that point we shall have more to say.

Charles. What more remains that has not been said already? For surely, sir, there are few sons more fortunate in their father: and, since you approve of this marriage, may I not conceive you to be in that sense fortunate in your son?

Dumont. Dear boy, there is always a variety of considerations. But the moment is ill chosen for dispute; to-night, at least, let our felicity be unalloyed. (Looking off L.C.) Our guests arrive: here is our good Curate, and here our cheerful Notary.

Charles. His old infirmity, I fear.

Dumont. But, Charles – dear boy! – at your wedding feast! I should have taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly sober.

SCENE II

To these, by the door L.C., the Curate and the Notary arm in arm; the latter owl-like and titubant

Curate. Peace be on this house!

Notary (singing). “Prove an excuse for the glass.”

Dumont. Welcome, excellent neighbours! The Church and the Law.

Curate. And you, Charles, let me hope your feelings are in solemn congruence with this momentous step.

Notary (digging Charles in the ribs). Married? Lovely bride? Prove an excuse!

Dumont (to Curate). I fear our friend? perhaps? as usual? eh?

Curate. Possibly; I had not yet observed it.

Dumont. Well, well, his heart is good.

Curate. He doubtless meant it kindly.

Notary. Where’s Aline?

Aline. Coming, sir! (Notary makes for her.)

Curate (capturing him). You will infallibly expose yourself to misconstruction. (To Charles.) Where is your commanding officer?

Charles. Why, sir, we have quite an alert. Information has been received from Lyons that the notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire, has broken prison, and the Brigadier is now scouring the country in his pursuit. I myself am instructed to watch the visitors to our house.

Dumont. That will do, Charles: you may go. (Exit Charles.) You have considered the case I laid before you?

Notary. Considered a case?

Dumont. Yes, yes. Charles, you know, Charles. Can he marry? under these untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry?

Notary. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract to which there are two constracting parties. That being clear, I am prepared to argue categorically that your son Charles – who, it appears, is not your son Charles – I am prepared to argue that one party to a contract being null and void, the other party to a contract cannot by law oblige or constrain the first party to constract or bind himself to any contract, except the other party be able to see his way clearly to constract himself with him. I donno if I make myself clear?

Dumont. No.

Notary. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice of peace might possibly afford relief.

Dumont. But how?

Notary. Ay, there’s the rub.

Dumont. But what am I to do? He’s not my son, I tell you: Charles is not my son.

Notary. I know.

Dumont. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him?

Notary. That’s what I want. (They go out, L.U.E.)

Aline. And now, if you’ve done deranging my table, to the cellar for the wine, the whole pack of you. (Manet sola, considering table.) There! it’s like a garden. If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I would marry the Notary.

SCENE III

The Stage remains vacant. Enter, by door L.C., Macaire, followed by Bertrand with the bundle; in the traditional costume

Macaire. Good! No police!

Bertrand (looking off L.C.). Sold again!

Macaire. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten minutes from the frontier: ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that frontier line! The criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable man. (Reading.) “’Auberge des Adrets,’ by John Paul Dumont.” A table set for company; this is fate: Bertrand, are we the first arrivals? An office; a cabinet; a cash-box – aha! and a cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a Quaker beauty: demure without, but what a figure of a woman! Outside gallery: an architectural feature I approve; I count it a convenience both for love and war; the troubadour – twang-twang; the craftsmen – (Makes as if turning key.) The kitchen window: humming with cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was born for truffles. Cock your hat: meat, wine, rest, and occupation; men to gull, women to fool, and still the door open, the great unbolted door of the frontier!

Bertrand. Macaire, I’m hungry.

Macaire. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. I should have left you in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no passport but my own. Your soul is incorporate with your stomach. Am I not hungry too? My body, thanks to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the kite-string; my aspirations and designs swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook an empire.

Bertrand. If I could get a full meal and a pound in my pocket I would hold my tongue.

Macaire. Dreams, dreams! We are what we are; and what are we? Who are you? who cares? Who am I? myself? What do we come from? an accident. What’s a mother? an old woman. A father? the gentleman who beats her. What is crime? discovery. Virtue? opportunity. Politics? a pretext. Affection? an affectation. Morality? an affair of latitude. Punishment? this side the frontier. Reward? the other. Property? plunder. Business? other people’s money – not mine, by God! and the end of life to live till we are hanged.

Bertrand. Macaire, I came into this place with my tail between my legs already, and hungry besides; and then you get to flourishing, and it depresses me worse than the chaplain in the gaol.

Macaire. What is a chaplain? A man they pay to say what you don’t want to hear.

Bertrand. And who are you after all? and what right have you to talk like that? By what I can hear, you’ve been the best part of your life in quod; and as for me, since I’ve followed you, what sort of luck have I had? Sold again! A boose, a blue fright, two years’ hard, and the police hot-foot after us even now.

Macaire. What is life? A boose and the police.

Bertrand. Of course, I know you’re clever; I admire you down to the ground, and I’ll starve without you. But I can’t stand it, and I’m off. Good-bye: good luck to you, old man! and if you want the bundle —

Macaire. I am a gentleman of a mild disposition, and, I thank my Maker, elegant manners; but rather than be betrayed by such a thing as you are, with the courage of a hare, and the manners, by the Lord Harry, of a jumping-jack – (He shows his knife.)

Bertrand. Put it up, put it up: I’ll do what you want.

Macaire. What is obedience? fear. So march straight, or look for mischief. It’s not bon ton, I know, and far from friendly. But what is friendship? convenience. But we lose time in this amiable dalliance. Come, now, an effort of deportment: the head thrown back, a jaunty carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the elbow. Thus. ’Tis better. (Calling.) House, house here!

Bertrand. Are you mad? We haven’t a brass farthing.

Macaire. Now! – But before we leave!

SCENE IV

To these, Dumont

Dumont. Gentlemen, what can a plain man do for your service?

Macaire. My good man, in a roadside inn one cannot look for the impossible. Give one what small wine and what country fare you can produce.

Dumont. Gentlemen, you come here upon a most auspicious day, a red-letter day for me and my poor house, when all are welcome. Suffer me, with all delicacy, to inquire if you are not in somewhat narrow circumstances?

Macaire. My good creature, you are strangely in error; one is rolling in gold.

Bertrand. And very hungry.

Dumont. Dear me, and on this happy occasion I had registered a vow that every poor traveller should have his keep for nothing, and a pound in his pocket to help him on his journey.

Dumont. I will send you what we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen like you.

SCENE V

Macaire, Bertrand; afterwards Charles, who appears on the gallery and comes down

Bertrand. I told you so. Why will you fly so high?

Macaire. Bertrand, don’t crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a pound to start upon – two pounds, for I’d have borrowed yours – three months from now I might have been driving in my barouche, with you behind it, Bertrand, in a tasteful livery.

Bertrand (seeing Charles). Lord, a policeman!

Macaire. Steady! What is a policeman? Justice’s blind eye. (To Charles.) I think, sir, you are in the force?

Charles. I am, sir, and it was in that character —

Macaire. Ah, sir, a fine service!

Charles. It is, sir, and if your papers —

Macaire. You become your uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, well!

Charles. My duty, sir —

Macaire. They tell me one Macaire – is not that his name, Bertrand? – has broken gaol at Lyons?

Charles. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that reason —

Macaire. Well, good-bye. (Shaking Charles by the hand and leading him towards the door, L.U.E.) Sweet spot, sweet spot. The scenery is… (kisses his finger-tips. Exit Charles.) And now, what is a policeman?

Bertrand. A bobby.

SCENE VI

Macaire, Bertrand; to whom, Aline with tray; and afterwards Maids

Aline (entering with tray and proceeding to lay table, L.). My men, you are in better luck than usual. It isn’t every day you go shares in a wedding feast.

Macaire. A wedding? Ah, and you’re the bride.

Aline. What makes you fancy that?

Macaire. Heavens, am I blind?

Aline. Well, then, I wish I was.

Macaire. I take you at the word: have me.

Aline. You will never be hanged for modesty.

Macaire. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich and nobly born, ’tis but a clog. I love you. What is your name?

Aline. Guess again, and you’ll guess wrong. (Enter the other servants with wine baskets.) Here, set the wine down. No, that is the old Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen must put up with a different bin. (Setting wine before Macaire and Bertrand, who are at table, L.)

Macaire (drinking). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove!

Bertrand. Sold again!

Macaire. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (Before the servants he exchanges the bottle for the one in front of Dumont’s place at the head of the other table.) Was it well done?

Bertrand. Immense.

Macaire (emptying his glass into Bertrand’s). There, Bertrand, you may finish that. Ha! music?

SCENE VII

To these, from the inn, L.U.E., Dumont, Charles, the Curate, the Notary jigging; from the inn, R.U.E., Fiddlers playing and dancing; and through door, L.C., Goriot, Ernestine, Peasants, dancing likewise. Air: “Haste to the Wedding.” As the parties meet, the music ceases

Dumont. Welcome, neighbours! welcome, friends! Ernestine, here is my Charles, no longer mine. A thousand welcomes. O, the gay day! O, the auspicious wedding! (Charles, Ernestine, Dumont, Goriot, Curate, and Notary sit to the wedding feast; Peasants, Fiddlers, and Maids, grouped at back drinking from the barrel.) O, I must have all happy around me.

Goriot. Then help the soup.

Dumont. Give me leave: I must have all happy. Shall these poor gentlemen upon a day like this drink ordinary wine? Not so; I shall drink it. (To Macaire, who is just about to fill his glass.) Don’t touch it, sir! Aline, give me that gentleman’s bottle and take him mine: with old Dumont’s compliments.

Macaire. What?

Bertrand. Change the bottle?

Dumont. Yes, all shall be happy.

Goriot. I tell ’ee, help the soup!

Dumont (begins to help soup. Then, dropping ladle). One word: a matter of detail; Charles is not my son. (All exclaim.) O no, he is not my son. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before.

Charles. I am not your son, sir?

Dumont. O no, far from it.

Goriot. Then who the devil’s son be he?

Dumont. O, I don’t know. It’s an odd tale, a romantic tale: it may amuse you. It was twenty years ago, when I kept the “Golden Head” at Lyons; Charles was left upon my doorstep in a covered basket, with sufficient money to support the child till he should come of age. There was no mark upon the linen, nor any clue but one: an unsigned letter from the father of the child, which he strictly charged me to preserve. It was to prove his identity; he, of course, would know the contents, and he only; so I keep it safe in the third compartment of my cash-box, with the ten thousand francs I’ve saved for his dowry. Here is the key; it’s a patent key. To-day the poor boy is twenty-one, to-morrow to be married. I did perhaps hope the father would appear; there was a Marquis coming; he wrote me for a room; I gave him the best, Number Thirteen, which you have all heard of; I did hope it might be he, for a Marquis, you know, is always genteel. But no, you see. As for me, I take all to witness I’m as innocent of him as the babe unborn.

Macaire. Ahem! I think you said the linen bore an M?

Dumont. Pardon me; the markings were cut off.

Macaire. True. The basket white, I think?

Dumont. Brown, brown.

Macaire. Ah! brown – a whitey-brown.

Goriot. I tell ’ee what, Dumont, this is all very well; but in that case, I’ll be danged if he gets my daater. (General consternation.)

Dumont. O Goriot, let’s have happy faces!

Goriot. Happy faces be danged! I want to marry my daater; I want your son. But who be this? I don’t know, and you don’t know, and he don’t know. He may be anybody; by Jarge, he may be nobody! (Exclamations.)

Curate. The situation is crepuscular.

Ernestine. Father, and Mr. Dumont (and you, too, Charles), I wish to say one word. You gave us leave to fall in love; we fell in love; and as for me, my father, I will either marry Charles or die a maid.

Charles. And you, sir, would you rob me in one day of both a father and a wife?

Dumont (weeping). Happy faces, happy faces!

Goriot. I know nothing about robbery; but she cannot marry without my consent, and that she cannot get.

Goriot (exasperated). I wun’t, and what’s more I shan’t.

Notary. I donno if I make myself clear.

Dumont. Goriot, do let’s have happy faces!

Goriot. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!!

Curate. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist, light may be obtained.

All. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary!

Dumont. Now, how about this marriage?

Notary. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two constracting parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I make myself clear?

Aline. Poor lamb!

Curate. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to misconstruction.

Macaire (taking the stage). As an entire stranger in this painful scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject one word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure, of pleasing qualities; here the young maiden, by her own confession bashfully consenting to the match; there sits that dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like myself, his own now dimmed with sorrow; and here Р(may I be allowed to add?) Рhere sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself the slave of duty. Last you have me РBaron Henri-Fr̩d̩ric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of delicacy. I find you all Рpermit me the expression Рgravelled. A marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The union of two souls, and, what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is an obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it but a word? O my friend (to Goriot), you whom I single out as the victim of the same noble failings with myself of pride of birth, of pride of honesty РO my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your dishevelled daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die, you will recall with pride this amiable weakness.