Laure, however, the “good genius,” takes another view of the case. It is _Lucienne’s_ homelessness, not Lucien’s nerves, that appears to her the chief question. She remembers, too, the “grave” state of mind of Hélène Briant, the result of her ineffectual efforts to react against her depressing environment—most repugnant to a charming woman still young but arrived at an age when she is forced to realise that one is not _always_ going to be young and charming, and who has no children, and no congenial companionship, and who, nevertheless, is “honest”—so far, Laure then _forms her own plan_. And the first step is to make known the facts of Lucienne’s identity, situation and presence at Trouville to Lucien, and to Hélène also. This is how she announces what, to him, at first appears a desperately indiscreet proceeding, to Chartier, who, ultimately, becomes a convert to her scheme. Laure begins by assuring her brother that an excess of discretion condemns those who make it their rule to fail in friendly services. _Laure [to Chartier]._ Let me tell you what you _should_ have done, what you ought to have done. You should have taken Lucien on one side, and, without worrying about the consequences, have simply made him acquainted with the facts. He had to be confronted with his duty. And since at heart he is, in spite of everything, an honest man, and that the very worst actions of his sort—and of your sort—don’t keep you from being thoroughly kind-hearted, he would certainly have found a happier and more consoling solution than to leave his daughter in distress. That is what you ought to have done. And as I saw you were not going to do it, that is what I have done. _Chartier._ What do you say? Good God! You have seen Lucien? _Laure._ Half an hour ago; after _déjeuner_. _Chartier._ It is simply insane, what you have done! He must have been utterly prostrated by such a blow, poor devil? _Laure._ Yes. He turned very pale. Then he rushed off to consult his father. Now what can happen to him, at the worst? He will have to endure some hours of worry, of anxiety, perhaps of remorse. What then? He deserves it. Lucienne is seventeen—she has in front of her the promise of a long existence, an existence conferred upon her by a light-hearted gentleman in an hour of distraction. Well, it is _Lucienne_ who interests me. You will tell me that it is not my concern—that I am interfering in a delicate matter which is no business of mine? _Chartier._ Precisely. That was just what I was going to say. _Laure._ And my answer is, that if one only occupied oneself with one’s own concerns one would only accomplish selfish and mediocre things.