All emotion is Lucien. And he breaks down completely when Lucienne shows him a photograph taken of him in the Latin Quarter, when he was the lover of Loulou, a wild figure in corduroy clothes, a long, flowing cape and an amazing hat. Lucienne, who imagines she is going to be sent back to the village near Limoges, and may never possibly see her father again, does not wish to be separated from the souvenir that stood for the image of him, in his young days. She stretches out her hand, asking for the return of the photograph: _Lucienne._ You will not take it away? You will leave it with me? _Lucien._ No. I shall keep it. And that is not all, I shall keep—I should be mad to fight any longer against my own heart; against your youth and my own—I shall keep the picture, and _you_ as well! Chartier, Hélène and Laure enter and behold, with joy, Lucienne in her father’s embrace. But now arrives the apostle of correctness, Briant _père_. He is not so much astonished, not so much shocked as filled with contempt, and lifted above all contact with the irregular sentiments and ill-directed sympathies of this emotional group of people, whom he attempts to freeze, with his superior disdain. And it is at this moment that he utters the unforgettable sentence which is one of the master-strokes in the play: _Briant_ père. It is quite sufficient to-day—and believe me, when simply stating the fact, I do not allow myself to be the least bit in the world disturbed by it—it suffices that a child should be illegitimate in order to find itself the object of universal sympathy; in the same way, it suffices that a woman is not a lawful wife to render her immediately the object of universal respect. Let married women, and children born in wedlock, make no mistake about it: they are going to have a bad time.[3] Lucien attempts to mollify his high displeasure. But Briant _père_ (happily for his family’s welfare, perhaps) insists that he must separate himself henceforth from these offenders. He shakes hands with his son and with Hélène—salutes, stiffly, Laure and Chartier. Then, with a curt bow to Lucienne and the one word, “_Mademoiselle_,” he takes his departure. _Lucienne [to Hélène]._ Qui est ce monsieur? _Hélène._ C’est ton grand-père. 3. M. BRIEUX, “LA DÉSERTEUSE,” AT THE ODÉON “Brieux at the Odéon? Brieux passing from the grim playhouse of M. Antoine, to the calm, placid, highly respectable Odéon?” Such must have been the startled exclamations of hundreds of playgoers when it was announced that the “Second Theatre of France” had “received,” and was actually rehearsing, a new drama by the author of _Les Avariés_ and _Maternité_.