When i think of you, I recall the perfume of wild lilies of the valley.
Could the memory of a Frenchman who is forever devoted to you move your hearts to save the life of a French woman?
The unfortunate bearer of this letter, is Madame Babette Hersant, who like my beautiful empress herself had to flee from Paris.
Civil war has been raging in our streets. Madame Hersant's husband and son were killed like rats. She, herself, narrowly escaped the blood stained hands of General Galliffet. She has lost everything and dares not to remain in France.
A nephew of hers works aboard a ship bound for Freder ikshavn. He has arranged a passage for her, she asked whether I knew any generous people in Denmark. This evoked my memories of you that I have long cherished.
For 35 years, Miss Philippa , I have deplored the fate that kept your voice from filling the Grand Opera House in Paris.
When I think of you honored respected and surrounded by a warm and happy swarm of children and when I think myself, an old man, lonely and lonely, forgoten by those who once applauded and adored me, I feel that is you who chose the better path in life.
what is fame? the grave that awaits us all. And yet my beautiful soprono of the snows, as i write this, i feel the grave is not the end. In Paradise I shall hear your voice again. There you will foever be the great artist that god intended you to be. Oh how you will enchant the angels?
Babette can cook. Ladies, please accept the humble thanks of a friend who was once Achille Papin.
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