A strange mix of Musetta and Mimi
with caresses from Rodolfo and Schaunard,
she was the flower of Paris
that a dream from a novel brought to the outskirts…
And in the mad rambling of the cabaret,
to the lull of some brash tango,
she nurtured an illusion:
she dreamed of Des Grieux,
she wanted to be Manon.
Little French girl,
who brought, lively,
sentimental and coquettish,
the poetry of the quartier,
who would say
that your grisette poem
would only have one stanza:
the silent agony
of Marguerite Gautier?
But the cold sordidness of the outskirts,
withering the purity of her faith,
without finding her Duval,
dried her heart just like a lily of the valley.
And one night of champagne and cocaine,
to the funeral lull of a bandoneon,
poor little thing, she fell asleep,
just like Mimi,
just like Manon.