magine--that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap
through history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic
and immortal.

SCENE II

_To these, all the former characters, less the NOTARY. The fiddles are
heard without playing dolefully. Air: "O dear, what can the matter
be?" in time to which the procession enters_

MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?

ALINE. No wedding, no wedding! \
|
GORIOT. I told 'ee he can't, and 'ee can't. |
|
DUMONT. Dear, dear me! > _Together._
|
ERNESTINE. They won't let us marry. |
|
CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing! /

CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent
friend, the Notary.

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 known only 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; smiting 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
p