GRISETA.

An odd blend of Musetta and Mimì, with caresses from Rodolfo and Schaunard, she was the flower of Paris whom a dream from a novel brought to the outskirts... And in the cabaret's mad wandering, lulled by some swaggering tango, she nurtured an illusion: she dreamed of Des Grieux, she wanted to be Manon.

Little French girl, who brought, so lively, sentimental and coquettish, the poetry of the quartier, who would have thought that your grisette's poem would have just one stanza: the silent agony of Marguerite Gautier?

But the cold squalor of the outskirts, withering the purity of her faith, without her ever finding her Duval, dried her heart like a lily of the valley. And one night of champagne and cocaine, to the funeral lullaby of a bandoneon, the poor girl fell asleep, just like Mimì, just like Manon.