MARGOT.

One can tell from far away, you idle girl turned grand lady, that you were born in the misery of a neighborhood tenement... For something gives you away; I don't know if it is your gaze, the way you sit, the way you look, the way you stand, or that body accustomed to calico clothes. That body which today traces the tempting beats of a tango's canyengue in some fool's arms, while your silhouette and your colorful dress triumph amid cigar smoke and the champagne of Armenonville.

That's nonsense: it was no lazy, overbearing tough guy, nor some troublesome pimp who cast you into vice... You fell through your own fault, and not innocently... Those dreams of being a grand lady you had in your head since the day a fancy tycoon courted you!

I remember, you had almost nothing to wear; today you wear silken finery with little rococo roses. Your presence infuriates me... I would pay not to see you... They have even changed your name as your fortunes changed: you are no longer my Margarita; now they call you Margot!

Now you go with the suckers to live like a grand lady in a luxurious private room at the Petit or the Julien, and your mother, poor mother, washes clothes all week to keep food in the pot, in Franciscan poverty, in the sad tenement lit by kerosene.