The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson

Macaire. I perceive I must reveal myself.

Dumont. God bless me, no!

Macaire. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work the change? Hear me, then, and you (to the others) prepare a smiling countenance. (Repeating.) ‘Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are only known to you and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father. – Your Unknown Benefactor.’

Dumont. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!

Charles. Good Lord! (General consternation.)

Bertrand (aside: smiling his brow). I see it now; sublime!

Curate. A highly singular eventuality.

Goriot. Him? O well, then, I wun’t. (Goes up.)

Macaire. Charles, to my arms! (Business.) Ernestine, your second father waits to welcome you. (Business.) Goriot, noble old man, I grasp your hand. (He doesn’t.) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (A dead Pause.) Charles, to my arms!

Charles. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I hope – er – in the course of time – I hope that may be somewhat mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont —

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?

Macaire. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my knees.

Goriot. Be you that young man’s veyther?

Macaire. Ay, and what a father!

Goriot. Then all I’ve got to say is, I shan’t and I wun’t.

Macaire. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend me a good suit? (Business.)

SCENE III

To these, the Marquis, L. C

Marquis. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?

Dumont. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.

Marquis. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterêts de la Cherté de Médoc. (Sensation.)

Macaire. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.

Marquis (to Dumont). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come (producing notes from breast-pocket) equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be generous. Can you not guess?

Dumont. Not I, my lord.

Marquis (repeating). ‘Preserve this letter,’ etc.

Macaire. Bitten.

Bertrand. Sold again (aside). (A pause.)

Aline. Well, I never did!

Dumont. Two fathers!

Marquis. Two? Impossible.

Dumont. Not at all. This is the other.

Marquis. This man?

Macaire. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father; Charles, to my arms! (Charles backs.)

Dumont. He knew the letter.

Marquis. Well, but so did I.

Curate. The judgment of Solomon.

Goriot. What did I tell ’ee? he can’t marry.

Ernestine. Couldn’t they both consent?

Marquis. But he’s my living image.

Macaire. Mine, Marquis, mine.

Marquis. My figure, I think?