Chapter XVI: 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 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 jail.

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.

MACAIRE (_aside_). A pound in his pocket?

BERTRAND (_aside_). Keep for nothing?

MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten!

BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again!

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 jail 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?

MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten!

BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again.

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 you 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.

(_All speak together_ . . .

DUMONT. O dear, O dear!

ALINE. What spoil the wedding?

ERNESTINE. O father!

CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not—

. . . )

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—(may I be allowed to add?)—here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself the slave of duty. Last you have me—Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of delicacy. I find you all—permit me the expression—gravelled. 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—O 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.

GORIOT. I shan’t, and what’s more I wun’t. (CHARLES _and_ ERNESTINE _lead him up stage_, _protesting_. _All rise_, _except_ NOTARY.)

DUMONT (_front R._, _shaking hands with_ MACAIRE). Sir, you have a noble nature. (MACAIRE _picks his pocket_.) Dear me, dear me, and you are rich.

MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here, the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and between my simple manhood and the infinite these rags are all.

DUMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless. For I, too, have delicacy: I understand you could not stoop to take a gift.

MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never!

DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer.

MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten.

BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again.

GORIOT (_taking the stage_). But, look’ee here, he can’t marry.

(_All speak together_ . . .

MACAIRE. Hey?

DUMONT. Ah!

ALINE. Hey day!

CURATE. Wherefore?

ERNESTINE. Oh!

CHARLES. Ah!

. . . )

GORIOT. Not without his veyther’s consent! And he hasn’t got it; and what’s more, he can’t get it: and what’s more, he hasn’t got a veyther to get it from. It’s the law of France.

ALINE. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself.

ERNESTINE. O, couldn’t we ask the Notary again?

CURATE. Indubitably you may ask him.

(_All speak together_ . . .

MACAIRE. Can’t they marry?

DUMONT. Can’t he marry?

ALINE. Can’t she marry?

ERNESTINE. Can’t we marry?

CHARLES. Can’t I marry?

GORIOT. Bain’t I right?

. . . )

NOTARY. Constracting parties.

CURATE. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more perspicuous.

GORIOT. Ay, before he’ve time to get at it.

NOTARY. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by applying justice of peace might afford relief.

(_All speak together_ . . .

MACAIRE. Bravo!

DUMONT. Excellent!

CHARLES. Let’s go at once!

ALINE. The very thing!

. . . )

ERNESTINE. Yes, this minute!

GORIOT. I’ll go. I don’t mind getting advice, but I wun’t take it.

MACAIRE. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast looks that you have not recognised the true nature of your responsibility as citizens of time. What is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man. Here is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word, I could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send you forth on your ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling thoughts, the physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut! Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, girls, and choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead forth our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (_Dance_, _in the course of which_ MACAIRE _picks_ DUMONT’S _pocket of his keys_, _selects the key of the cash-box_, _and returns the others to his pocket_. _In the end_, _all dance out_: _the wedding-party_, _headed by_ FIDDLERS, _L. C._; _the_ MAIDS _and_ ALINE _into the inn_, _R. U. E._ _Manet_ BERTRAND _and_ MACAIRE.)

SCENE VIII

MACAIRE, BERTRAND, _who instantly takes a bottle from the wedding-table_, _and sits with it_, _L._

MACAIRE. Bertrand, there’s a devil of a want of a father here.

BERTRAND. Ay, if we only knew where to find him.

MACAIRE. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father.

BERTRAND. You, Macaire? you a father?

MACAIRE. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable of anything. (_Producing key_.) What think you of this?

BERTRAND. That? Is it a key?

MACAIRE. Ay, boy, and what besides? my diploma of respectability, my patent of fatherhood. I prigged it—in the ardour of the dance I prigged it; I change it beyond recognition, thus (_twists the handle of the key_); and now . . .? Where is my long-lost child? produce my young policeman! show me my gallant boy!

BERTRAND. I don’t understand.

MACAIRE. Dear innocence, how should you? Your brains are in your fists. Go and keep watch. (_He goes into the office and returns with the cash-box_.) Keep watch, I say.

BERTRAND. Where?

MACAIRE. Everywhere. (_He opens box_.)

BERTRAND. Gold.

MACAIRE. Hands off! Keep watch. (BERTRAND _at back of stage_.) Beat slower, my paternal heart! The third compartment; let me see.

BERTRAND. S’st! (MACAIRE _shuts box_.) No; false alarm.

MACAIRE. The third compartment. Ay, here t—

BERTRAND. S’st! (_Same business_.) No: fire away.

MACAIRE. The third compartment: it must be this.

BERTRAND. S’st! (MACAIRE, _keeps box open_, _watching_ BERTRAND.) All serene; it’s the wind.

MACAIRE. Now, see here! (_He darts his knife into the stage_.) I will either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out I’ll work alone. Do you understand? I said alone.

BERTRAND. For the Lord’s sake, Macaire!—

MACAIRE. Ay, here it is. (_Reading letter_). ‘Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are known only to you and me: hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father.’ Signed: ‘Your Unknown Benefactor.’ (_He turns it over twice and replaces it_. _Then_, _fingering the gold_) Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness ready-made and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold? The world; the term of ills; the empery of all; the multitudinous babble of the change, the sailing from all ports of freighted argosies; music, wine, a palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key of consciences, and love—love’s whistle! All this below my itching fingers; and to set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present, and condescend once more, naked, into the ring with fortune—Macaire, how few would do it! But you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile clay. No cheap immediate pilfering: no retail trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the heart of the position, and clutch all!

BERTRAND (_at his shoulder_). Halves!

MACAIRE. Halves? (_He locks the box_.) Bertrand, I am a father. (_Replaces box in office_.)

BERTRAND (_looking after him_). Well, I—am—damned!

* * * * *

DROP.