Because Santa was decidedly a hit, her triumph had required only that she allow herself to be undressed and bathed in champagne in a closed room of the Maison Dorée Restaurant, on a certain night when the richest members of the city's Sport Club arranged an orgiastic dinner to celebrate her, like a modern, olive-skinned version of a legendary Greek concubine.

That edifying spectacle marked Santa's transformation from withdrawn, half-wild “new girl” to stylish courtesan, whom all the males able to afford her substantial price yearned to try for themselves. More than a sensual appetite, theirs seemed an urge to vent some dark desire, to crush and bruise that spicy, delicious, unresisting flesh whose owner was bound for hell and with whom each customer could act out his desires with impunity. And even though these extremely numerous gentlemen included respectable fathers and husbands, upstanding citizens, the cream of society, some of them Catholic, some freethinkers, men both lighthearted and solemn, men who represented public authority and worthy causes—none of them considered rescuing this poor girl from her fate. So it is in this Vale of Tears where each of us mortals has a cross to bear! Is someone's fate particularly cruel? Too bad! These decent, respectable men pursued the recently fallen girl like a galloping herd of stallions that, on fire with bestial lust, respect nothing and will stop at nothing. One could say that the most lascivious denizens of the entire city passed through Santa's bedroom, hardly giving her time to change position. The fallen woman! That is exactly the way they wanted her, the way they dreamed of her—the supremely attractive forbidden fruit.

Santa, deep down, felt flattered in her womanly vanity by this seemingly infinite adoration. Rather than bruising, she smiled—in her perpetual, shameless nudity, fleshy arms folded behind her head, her black mane spilling over them—at the ceaseless parade of men who approached her tremulously and mashed her lips with their kisses, who deafened her with their whispered, fleeting promises only to depart, soon enough, embarrassed at their own words and actions, leaving a few coins on the table and, in Santa's heart, a mixture of disdain and anger. They wanted, asked for, demanded that she offer them not only her lovely body but also her affection, her love!

“Love me,” implored their banknotes and furious caresses. “Love me for an instant at least!”

Love them … how could she love them, when the first rascal she had come across had left her without the slightest desire for a repeat performance? Are there men who deserve to be loved?