The girl was heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

Her blond hair was perfectly curled and piled atop her head without a single strand out of place, as if her hair was sculpted out of pure gold. Her blue eyes outshone any jewel she wore, and her body would make Venus sick with envy.

This girl was only fourteen?

France was under her trance. Surely this girl was truly French and not Austrian? After all, the most beautiful things in the world were from France.

It seemed rather comical when the future Dauphine curtsied gracefully to young Louis, and he only gave her an awkward bow and a stiff peck on the cheek. Louis was a clumsily made ragdoll compared to this porcelain angel.

"Madamoiselle Antoinette, this is Francis Bonnefoy, the man of France."

Young Marie Antoinette turned to France, a delicate smile on her face. France took her white hand and kissed it gently.

"Enchanté, my child," he said softly.

Marie relaxed at his presence and reached to give him a hug. France was surprised at first—positively delighted, but surprised. Very few, if any, dauphines would give France a hug for all to see. Most people would treat France politely but were wary of him; as if afraid he could read their minds or disapprove of everything they do. France smiled and hugged her close.

Yes, she will become a good queen.

"There she comes, L'Autrichienne."

Even though he was not part of the conversation, France turned to see Marie enter the dining hall. Her dress seemed to balloon out of her tiny waist and her hair was the epitome of gold. But the most stunning of ladies were the ones pierced in the back with slanderous gossip.

"The Dauphin should've married a French lady instead of an Austrian," one noble sniffed. "How can one trust a girl from an opposing country?"

"She will be the ruin of France, she will," one grumbled in his wine cup.

France rolled his eyes. Ah, yes, because a fourteen-year-old little child could bring chaos to France.

"No doubt she will persuade the Dauphin to ease Austria's thrall," a nobleman accused.

"How will she know the French ways?" hissed a woman. "Only Austrian traditions. It will crumble the way things run."

"I hear," a sly voice said smoothly, "that she considers the living styles of France to be ridiculous."

"Little Marie! There you are!" France suddenly piped up, standing from his seat right next to the Dauphin's. "It's wonderful you've arrived; I was eagerly waiting for you."

He could feel the eyes of the gossipy nobles gape at him. France felt satisfaction inside him; how could they disagree with their own nation? Marie flashed a sweet smile at France and slipped into her seat directly across from his. One of the gossipmongers cleared his throat and offered Marie a sickly smile.

"Why, Madame Antoinette! You are looking absolutely picturesque tonight."

"Your hair, my dear, I envy it with all my heart."

"I must compliment your mother for your upbringing; your manners could calm the wildest dragon."

As Marie politely received her showers of compliments, France sighed bitterly in his cup. Long Live Versailles.

"Nothing happened last night?"

Louis muttered something inaudibly before returning his concentration to his locks.

"What in the world is in your head?" France exclaimed, knocking hard on Louis' head. "Or shall I say, what is not in your head?"

Louis pointedly ignored France, squinting as he crafted the locks he was so accustomed in doing. France, taking Louis' silence as a confession, gasped and backed into the wall.

"My…my dear boy, is that the case? Oh, what suffering! How would you have any heirs?"

"Be quiet, Francis," Louis mumbled, his cheeks reddening. "I'm perfectly normal."

"Thank goodness," France said breathily, wiping his brow. France wasn't sure how he would survive if he couldn't have happiness from the wonders of beautiful men and women. "Then why the hesitation? Men of all ages all over the world would give up their hard-earned money and families for a girl like yours."

"You are a vulgar man," Louis said quietly. "I cannot understand men like you."

"Not everyone is as timid as you are, my little rabbit," France laughed.

"I'm only fifteen, Francis," Louis said exasperatedly. "Men should not lie with women this early in life. You wouldn't understand anymore; you're ancient."

"Such abuses break my heart and self-esteem, young Dauphin," cried France, clutching his chest. "Besides, I am not that old. I have the handsome, healthy body of a twenty-six year old."

"You know there is a difference," Louis said, glaring at France. "Can you even make love? Considering what you are."

"Why deny me the ability and plant the desire in me?" France grinned wickedly. Louis grimaced.

"Are you supposed to be the representative of all the people of France?" Louis demanded. "If they're all lustful, I may lose my respect for them."

"Best not, lest you make the feelings mutual," France recommended. "It is a hard obstacle for a ruler if his own people lose respect for him."

It was worth spending an entire afternoon searching every room in Versailles looking for a harpsichord to see little Marie's positively delighted face at the sight of it. She rushed over to the instrument, running her graceful fingers over the dark keys and relishing the clear melodies.

"How did you know I adored music?" she asked France.

"A very slow process," France admitted, sitting on an armchair. "After piecing the subtle hints from many conversations together, I finally remembered there was a harpsichord somewhere in Versailles and went on a gallant adventure in search for it."

Marie laughed and seated herself on the harpsichord bench.

"Would you like to hear a piece?" she asked him.

"Why of course. The harpsichord is under your command," France said, bowing slightly to her.

Marie played a sweet, lighthearted melody on the instrument. Her fingers glided over the keys with such speed and agility that it made France think of a spider; the only beautiful spider that ever existed. For a moment he had forgotten the constant worries of France's growing debt from the Seven Years' War or the disastrous famine that starved the peasants. The only world that existed was what France should be: beauty, harmony, and art.

"You astound me more and more every day, little Marie," said France when the last note quivered to silence. "You learned much music back in Austria, yes?"

"Oh, yes, I love music," Marie beamed. "I enjoy playing very much. In Vienna, there are wonderful musicians in practically every corner."

"And who is your favorite?" France asked curiously.

Marie cocked her head in thought. "I'm not sure; they're all so wonderful." She giggled behind her hand. "Though I do remember when I was little, I had a liking towards Mozart."

"Who?" France furrowed his eyebrows.

"Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Perhaps you do not know him; his name comes up quite bit in Austria," Marie explained. "He has written his first concerto at four, first symphony at seven, and an opera at twelve!"

"Impressive," France said genuinely. Of course, if this Mozart was Austria's boy, this was no surprise.

"I remember when I was six, he came to our family to perform for us," Marie said dreamily, her eyes glazed with memory. "It was quite wonderful. I honestly cannot remember the names of his pieces, but they were lovely. While he was there, he slipped and fell. I caught him, and he immediately kissed me on the cheek and promised me that he'll marry me!"

France couldn't help but laugh. Perhaps this boy's musical skills were Austria's, but his sense of romance was definitely French.

"Charming!" France chuckled. "Best not tell that story to our Dauphin, however."

Marie shrugged, smiling half-heartedly. "Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't mind, anyways."

"A daft suggestion! Even a complete fool would shit in his pants with anger if a composer stole their lady away, especially if the lady was half as charming as you are."

"You're too flattering, Francis," Marie said lightly, her cheeks pink. "You're the one with the smooth tongue. If I ever get a son anytime soon, you will probably trick him into thinking that the world ran backwards and that trees could talk."

"A world like that wouldn't be bad," France said, leaning back into the chair, his mind once again flooded with the moans of hungry peasants. "Not bad at all."

France did not expect to walk into the Dauphine's study to find the young woman huddled in a corner, her small body shaking.

He immediately rushed towards Marie, fearing the worse. She couldn't have been—no man would've—dear God, if a man wanted a woman, he should at least be decent about it.

"My Lady!" he cried, taking her hand. It was wet with tears. "What is the matter? Who hurt you? We must get help immediately!"

"No! Francis!" she cried just as he was about to scoop her up into his arms. "It's—no one hurt me—I'm just…" she sniffed, wiping her face with the skirt of her dress. There was a damp, crumpled paper in her hand. France sank to the ground, sitting down next to her.

"Mother…" she whispered, her voice thick and sticky with tears. "She's—I just can't get a son!" Marie swallowed, rubbing her red eyes. "It's been so long since Louis and I have married and I can't even produce a son for France! Louis—he won't be with me at night—I try so much to persuade him but he won't…"

France inwardly cursed the passionless Dauphin. If France had it his way, there would never be problems like this.

"May I?" France asked softly, pointing to the letter in Marie's hands. She nodded, handing the paper to France and burying her face in her skirt. France smoothed out the crinkled paper and skimmed through the words of Maria Theresa. He gaped at the mother's direct insults to her daughter. She had point-blank told Marie she was no longer beautiful and charming! What a cruel lie.

"Little Marie, you are without doubt the most beautiful, the most charming, and the sweetest woman I have been blessed to meet," France said earnestly. "Take my word for it; I've seen more than hundreds of men's lifetimes of beautiful people."

Marie blew her nose in her handkerchief, worry still glossing her eyes.

"Louis is a stiff little brute; it has nothing to do with you," he crooned softly. "Only metal and hunt interest him. Your mother cannot possibly understand."

Marie rested her head in her hands, rubbing the fabric of her dress between her fingers.

"I think she hates me," Marie murmured. "They all do, don't they? I hear the nobles talking about me behind my back. I'm sure the people all over France are doing the same thing!"

France silently raised Marie's little hand to his lips and kissed it.

"Not I, little Marie," he said tenderly. "I will always love you."

"Après moi, le deluge."

France watched with both delight and nervousness as the new King of France received his crown at the young age of twenty-three. The nobles clapped, the celebrations raged on, little Marie with her outrageously gigantic hairstyle being merry with her dear friend the princesse de Lamballe…

Why did France feel a strange twang in his heart?

He felt clammy and anxious. He kept looking over his shoulder as if something was behind him, ready to stab him, cut off his head, and parade it around the city. His innards wrung nervously; he could sense some sort of potential horror lurking in the corners of the grand hall.

This wasn't supposed to be. The people of France finally had a new king. He was supposed to be drinking luscious wine and joining in the chatter of nobles. Why did France feel so restless?

After me, the flood.

France shivered at the words of the late King Louis XV.

Couldn't be anything, France tried to convince himself. The old king was probably thinking nonsense from smallpox. What sense was in those words, 'After me, the flood?' There was nothing to fear.

France looked outside the window, towards Paris. He remembered how yesterday he visited his dear people and how famished they look, how deep they sank in poverty and inequality, how they implored to France to advise the King to help the people, and realized that perhaps the dead king's words foreshadowed France's future.

When little Marie's brother Joseph finally left Versailles, the occupants of the grand palace were convinced that Louis XVI would finally lie down with his wife. What they didn't know was that Louis Xvi was still unconvinced afterwards, and it was France himself whom nudged the young man towards the right direction.

"Well, Austria's an inflexible rod who wouldn't know anything about the beauty of it," France said to himself as he searched for Louis. "How can a man from such a country be able to inspire someone?" On the other hand, France was a connoisseur of this matter, and knew just what to do.

France approached Louis, acting innocent and casual. Louis was making locks as usual; he barely noticed France's presence. France sat down on a chair next to the king and stretched, yawning loudly.

"Always making those locks of yours," France said.

"Mmm," was the only sound Louis made.

"You like the ones with keys better, don't you?"

Louis nodded, twisting the metal to his bidding.

"What's the best part of making these locks, anyways?" France persisted.

Louis shrugged. "I don't know. Testing it out, I suppose."

Just the answer France wanted.

"Yes, it seems so. Sticking the key through the hole and discovering the magic of locks, the jobs it can now do," France went on, smiling slightly.

"Hmm," Louis agreed, barely paying any attention to France. France leaned in closer, resting his chin on his hands.

"But I believe, in my opinion, that sticking a key into a lock isn't as great as other things."

"What do you mean?" Louis asked, frowning.

France grinned.

However, the rest of the conversation has been deemed too inappropriate, so the audience must use their imagination to guess what the rest of it was about.

France wanted to come home to a happy country, free of debts and hunger, inequity abolished and destitution only a subject of nightmares. He had spent long, hard years aiding America in their pathway to independence. America had grown up to be a young, handsome man since the last time France had seen him. Though France didn't mind fighting for America's freedom, the ultimate goal for joining this revolution was to pummel the British until they were shamed by their enemies. France was happy to say that they had succeeded.

However, as he and his tired, homesick men returned to their homes, there was no happiness or success like there was in America. France's fears of growing debt had been accurate; supporting America's revolution had sent France's economy spiraling down without pause. The people were resentful; why did the king help give America freedom when they had none? France could hear every trouble in the people's hearts; in fact, he was troubled himself. Didn't the king try to do anything?

France strode through the long halls of Versailles, desperately seeking the royal rulers. Surely one of them was trying to do something for the people? He randomly selected a room and shoved the door open.

Little Marie, dressed in an outrageous dress and towering hairstyle, was cajoling and shuffling cards, surrounded by her favorite ladies. France stood there in shock as the ladies dealt the cards, throwing down precious money like an elderly lady feeding the birds breadcrumbs.

"Francis! You're back!" Marie cried. She stood up from her seat (her legs rather unsteady; her heavy hair wobbling threateningly above) and embraced France tightly. France got hit in the face with her high-ceilinged hair.

"Oh my goodness, I've missed you so!" Marie gushed. "You must tell me everything that has happened. You must be famished and tired from your journey home! Would you like something to eat? Bread?"

France shook his head. For the past couple years, food could not satisfy his stomach. For endless days he was starving but couldn't satisfy his discomfort. When he had finally reached home, he had realized why: his people were without bread and food.

"Brioche, then. What about brioche?" Marie insisted.

"No, little Marie," France said. "I need to talk to you."

"All right," said Marie concernedly. "How about it, ladies? Shall we stop for today? I lost nearly all my money, anyways."

France caught a glance at the score sheet listing all the money betted and gulped. Marie's amount was a large sum.

As the ladies filed out of the room, France sat down on a stiff wooden chair, rubbing his eyes swollen with exhaustion. Marie seated herself in her decorated chintz chair and smoothed down her dress.

"You're wearing new clothes," France said blankly.

"Why of course," Marie said delicately. "It's been such a long time since I've seen you. All my clothes now have been bought only a week ago."

France supposed that a week ago wasn't the only time she bought new clothes during his absence.

"Little Marie, the people of France are in desperate need of help," France said evenly. "There is a shortage of bread, and whatever bread is around is priced so high that those who are hungry for it cannot even afford it. There must be something that you and King Louis could do about it."

Marie's cheerful countenance slid off. She played with her fingers nervously, gazing at the glassy floor.

"But what can we do?" she asked quietly.

"The people need all the money they can get," France told her. "You cannot just waste the government money away on games and gambling."

"Now really, it isn't that much!" Marie protested. "Surely, we have much money around. I never count it, of course."

France rubbed his temples. This was proving itself much more difficult than he wanted.

"Where is your husband, then?" he demanded through gritted teeth. "Perhaps he would know much more about what is going on."

"I don't know where the poor man is," Marie said stiffly. She glanced at the ornate clock at the corner of the room and stood up. "I must leave you, Francis. Teresa is expecting me at this time."

France watched her leave the room, leaving him in the silent, opulent room. The room was too lavish for him. France had to escape before he would choke from all its fraudulence.

Blood. There was so much blood on the streets that day. It seeped into the crevices of buildings and through the cracks on the roads. The flowers seemed to unanimously blush sanguine as their roots drank in the vast amount of blood.

France could smell it in the air. The smell of blood; the smell of revolution.

He watched as his people invade the prison Bastille to seize ammunition for defense. He couldn't help but feel overjoyed; perhaps things will improve. Maybe the people will have better lives after all. The revolution was brewing in their eyes.

However, the good feelings sapped away as he looked down to his hands and feet, and how they were covered in others' blood. He looked up to see his people shoving the heads of their enemies of pikes and paraded them through the streets, positively thrilled of their act of defiance.

France suddenly realized that today was his birthday.

He envied America's birthday now. If only France's was as simple as signing a document.

The doors flung open. One of the King's courtiers was at the doorway, heaving for breath and shaking with anxiety. Everybody stood up from their chair, alarmed at the man's sudden entrance.

"Queen Antoinette!" he gasped. "Women—there are women marching to Versailles at this very moment. They're blaming you for the lack of bread and are ready to kill you."

France turned to Marie, shocked. Marie bit her lip, hugging her children close beside her.

"You must seek safety in the king's chambers," the courtier warned. "These women are not just threats. They have weapons and are brewing with mutiny."

Marie glanced imploringly at France, as if begging him for advice. France glimpsed out the window towards the forest. He could almost hear the women's voices singing about Marie's murder, even though they were far away.

"Call a meeting with the king," France ordered the courtier. "We need to know his response to all this."

The courtier nodded and dashed out of the room. France hurried to Marie's side.

"Little Marie, you must not give way," he advised her.

Marie was very pale, but she kept her composure. She hugged her children closer, nearly breaking their bodies.

"I've been telling Louis that we should leave this place," she moaned. "But he won't listen; he doesn't want to leave!"

"It'll be all right, little Marie," France assured her, though he himself wasn't too certain. "On my word, we shall protect you."

When Louis finally arrived, Marie had begged to leave Versailles, but he refused. Hopelessly trapped in the palace, the queen directed the children's governess to bring the little ones to the king's room if there was any danger. Not wanting to risk the wellbeing of anyone else, Marie chose to sleep alone in her room.

France was uneasy about this. Why couldn't the king just leave the palace? He belonged in Paris, the capital of the country. France hated the Palace of Versailles now, with all its superfluous luxuries and uselessness.

"I'll call La Fayette to assemble his National Guards," France said. "They'll make sure the women can't enter the palace."

But even with this supposed comfort, France wasn't convinced that this situation could be dismissed as trivial. As the others left Marie's room, France lingered behind.

"Little Marie…" he started. Marie lifted her hand to silence him.

"I know what you're going to say, Francis," she said.

"At least have one of the ladies sleep with you," France beseeched. "Or have a guard by the door. In fact, I will guard your door."

"No, Francis," Marie said firmly. "I will not risk anyone else getting hurt because of me." Her eyes saddened as she brushed blond strands of hair from France's face. "And you are much more valuable than I am."

"They cannot kill me," France argued.

"I shan't risk it," said Marie. She kissed him on the cheek. "But thank you. I bid you good night."

France hesitated before bowing to his queen and departing.

France paced to and fro in the king's chamber. He heard the loud clamors of the mob outside the palace. So much for the twenty thousand National Guardsmen. The women had broken into the palace, even going as far as beheading two guards and sticking their heads on pikes. Why did his people like cutting people's heads off and attaching them to spears nowadays?

Louis and his younger sister were already in the room, quietly waiting for the queen's arrival. France was starting to get paranoid. What if the mob had already gotten to little Marie?

Finally, there was a loud banging on the door. France quickly raced towards it, peeking through the makeshift peephole that was installed (a very small hole with a clear marble wedged in it). Honestly, the peephole didn't work, so France shoved the door open, regardless of who was at the door.

Thankfully, Marie and her two ladies-in-waiting scrambled inside. They looked as if they had jumped right out of bed and through a small and tight tunnel.

"My children! Are my children here?" Marie cried.

"They're coming!" France exclaimed. The governess and the two children were hurrying through the hallway towards the king's chamber. As they raced into the room, France slammed the door shut and bolted it.

"They had broken into my room," Marie admitted breathlessly, clutching her children's hands. "We had just escaped another way before they came in. A stroke of good luck."

France leaned against the wall, moving the curtains from the windows slightly. He peeked through the thick glass and gulped. The women were now gathering in the palace courtyard, raising their muskets and the heads of the fallen guards.

"They're here," he muttered.

As time passed, more women flooded into the courtyard. Their hollers grew louder and stronger, demanding for the queen. With their heavy muskets and bloody heads, they were absolutely formidable.

"They're calling for you, your Highness," a lady-in-waiting whispered.

Marie was clothed in shadows, her face unreadable. France mind was turmoil of emotions. Part of him urged the queen to go out and appease the people of her nation. The other part feared for her life.

Marie finally stood up. Her children were still clinging to her night-robe. Without uttering a word, she strode towards the doors to the balcony. There was no fumble or hesitation in her movements as she pulled the doors open and stepped outside to the balcony, closing the doors behind her.

France watched in great apprehension as the queen stood before the people defenseless. He could hear the women demand Marie to send the children back inside. She consented, opening the doors for the children to return to safety before shutting them again, utterly alone. France wanted to burst through the doors and save Marie, but what good would that do? He knew that this was what the people wanted.

How long did she stand there? Ten minutes, perhaps, standing tall and calm as muskets were aimed right at her. No one in Versailles moved. Time froze. France's heart beat frantically.

Marie then bowed her head and finally returned inside the chambers. The women, amazed by the queen's stoic bravery, cried out, "Vive la Reine!" France embraced Marie just as she came back inside.

It was then decided that night. The king and queen were to leave Versailles and return to Paris, where they belonged. The people needed food and bread; perhaps bringing the rulers closer to the people would be the solution. France followed his Louis and Marie away from Versailles, silently thankful that they could leave the elaborate cage. He hoped that this would make everything better again. He prayed with all his heart that it would.

"I'm sorry, Francis."

France's back was turned to Marie. He refused to look at her in the eyes.

"Will you please look at me?"

France crossed his arms and turned to her. Marie must've immediately regretted the request, for she recoiled at France's glower.

"Hear me out, Francis," she pleaded. "We would've been in danger if we just stayed. We didn't know what to do; it seemed like the best option. What else could we do?"

"What would the people do if you succeeded?" France demanded. "Suppose you actually succeeded in escaping France. Didn't you think once about the people? Leaving the country without a leader to guide them—haven't you considered that?"

France was uncharacteristically furious. He had woken up one morning to find the Palais des Tuileries, the royal family's new home in Paris, empty. He searched all over the palace for the royal family only to find them and some of their possessions missing. They left no note, no warning, nothing. France was deserted by his own leaders.

"How did you try to escape, then?" France inquired. "Obviously it wasn't too well thought out, if you were c aught Varennes."

"It's a long story," Marie mumbled shamefully. The two remained in a stiff, horrible silence.

"You are now in more danger than you were before you tried to flee," France said gravelly. He headed to the door; he needed to leave her presence before he let his whole being burn. As he passed through the doorway, he turned to her.

"Now the people of France are against you," he said coldly. "And so am I."

He shut the door.

France didn't know why he was even here.

For one thing, it was dastardly cold. The entire environment felt wet and muggy as if he was surrounded by mold, even though he was outside. A large crowd accompanied him, shivering from the cold and anticipation.

The streets were lined with so many citizens, horses, and drummers that France felt squelched and tiny. But even with the huge number of people, not a single man made a sound. The city was as silent as the grave, without even a murmur of an imaginary ghost.

A small, black carriage slowly made its way through the streets. The windows were covered; France craned his neck to try to peek through them but failed. It inched its way towards the destination, teasing the people by stretching time longer than it actually was.

Finally, it slowed to a complete stop. The carriage door was yanked open and Louis XVI stepped out. His glamorous attire was long gone; there was no sign of royalty on him. He could've been easily mistaken as a peasant or a vile criminal had not France raised him and watched him grow for thirty-eight years.

"I recommend to you this good man; take care that after my death no insult be offered to him - I charge you to prevent it," France could hear Louis say to the gendarmes. France couldn't see who Louis was talking about; he must've been in the carriage with the former king.

He watched with bitter pride as Louis undressed himself, untied his neckcloth, and opened his shirt before the guards could even touch him roughly. Louis at least remembered one thing France taught him; keep his pride at all cost. His heart suddenly hurt as if a needle pierced it. France rubbed his chest and swallowed. Was this from the people's emotions? No; it was France's own human heart aching.

The gendarmes surrounded Louis, rope at the ready. They made to grab his wrists, but Louis deftly dodged their attempts.

"What are you attempting?' said the King, drawing back his hands.

"To bind you," answered the gendarmes. Louis made a sound of indignation.

"'To bind me," said the King, with an indignant air. "No! I shall never consent to that:. Do what you have been ordered, but you shall never bind me. . ."

France's heart grew heavier at every step Louis took towards his last destination. He remembered the long, exciting afternoons they had hunting with each other, the competitions they had to see who could make locks the fastest, how France always teased Louis for being insufferably shy. This was no corrupted king they were executing; this was France's little boy.

When Louis planted his feet on the scaffold, he turned to the crowd. France couldn't believe how calm and composed the king was on the day of his death. Perhaps this was one of the king's strengths that France never knew about.

"I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge," Louis said in a loud and clear voice. "I Pardon those who have occasioned my death; and I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France."

Just as the king uttered his last words, the drummers that lined the streets beat their drums with a savage-like ardor. France cringed as the executions dragged Louis under the guillotine. France didn't want any of this to happen; he had voted against the king and queen's death and was beaten down by a wave of votes demanding condemnation. He felt powerless as the executioner prepared the blade.

France couldn't bear to watch. He turned on his heel and wriggled through the crowd. He heard a loud, sickening thud behind him. Just as he was escaping the nightmare, he could hear the cries of "Vive la Republique!" echo in the air as hats were thrown up to the sky.

"Francis?"

France tentatively stepped out of the shadows towards Marie's prison. She looked much too pale and too sickly for her own good. How long had it been since he last saw her? It must've been when he angrily left her when she attempted to escape France. Almost two years, then. He had almost forgotten about her, working hard with his fellow countrymen, trying to organize an improved government for France.

"Francis, is that really you?" Marie whispered. France slowly took Marie's hand and kissed it like old times. Marie's blue eyes filled with tears as she clasped France's hands in between her own. They were rough and cold from imprisonment.

"I'm so glad to see you again," she choked, smiling at him despite the fact that her condemnation was this afternoon.

"As am I, little Marie," France admitted quietly.

Marie laughed at the old nickname. "I'm no longer your little Marie, I believe," she sighed. "Look at me. I'm thirty-seven. I'm older than you are now." She brushed hair out of France's face. "Now I'm the elderly mother and you are little Francis."

France smiled wryly. Perhaps physically she was older, but France would always be her father. He had seen more blood, more violence, and more corruption than any of the eldest gentlemen in the world could even imagine.

"Is it soon?" she asked.

"Almost time," France confessed. Marie sighed, rubbing the white cloth of her simple dress between her fingers. How strange and unnaturally small she looked without her gigantic dresses and poufs!

"Will you be able to accompany me?" she questioned.

"I'm afraid not, little Marie," France said sadly. "They've forbidden it."

Marie glanced up at France, smiling. "That's all right. I'm just so happy you've visited me."

The two were engulfed in silence once more. France wanted to say anything to break the silence, as to not waste their last moments together, but he couldn't think of anything.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

France's eyes widened in surprise at her sudden apology. Marie stared up at him with her round blue eyes that had charmed him ever since he first saw her. France could feel his heart break.

"Thank you," he murmured, swallowing down his tears.

"Take care of France, won't you?" she asked. "I wish there wasn't so much damage for you to fix."

"Of course, little Marie," France pledged. "I promise."

Marie did not get a closed black carriage like Louis had as she was brought to the scaffold. She sat, bound by rope, in an open cart, sensitive to the bitter air and the piercing eyes of all who surrounded her. France was one of them, taking in her sight as if he couldn't have enough. He wished he wasn't so close to the scaffold, but somehow he was shoved towards that direction as he entered the crowd of people awaiting the death of their former queen.

How calm and silent she was as she was brought to the guillotine! Louis and Marie were extraordinary; France couldn't imagine what was going through their minds during their last moments. Were they regretful? Relieved? Emotionless?

Marie stepped onto the scaffold without any speeches or last remarks like her last husband. France saw that she murmured something as she passed the execution; or was that France's imagination? Were her last words the ones she shared with France in her prison, or perhaps she had bade her children goodbye before coming to her death?

France was frozen stiff as Marie was strapped onto the guillotine—the death machine that would ensure the deaths of thousands to come. For some reason, his eyes would not shut away the scene. His legs would not lead him away from the terror. He was trapped, forced to watch. His eyes stung but he forbade himself to shed a single tear. There was no point in crying. It could not change anything.

As the executioner dragged the blade higher, France suddenly heard the little harpsichord tune that Marie had performed for him so long ago. How did he remember it after all these years? He hadn't heard it once afterwards. He could still picture her young self smiling and playing the harpsichord, unaware of her dark and short future.

The blade reached its highest point. The executioner's muscles tensed, all set to end Marie's life. France couldn't blink or move. He stared straight ahead towards the guillotine; his heart was fluttering so fast it must've been trying to substitute its extra beats for Marie's lost ones.

Goodbye, little Marie.

The blade dropped, hissing through the air.

This story. Took. Forever.

But that's all right. Only seventeen pages on Microsoft Word…

It was easier for me to write this because we had just finished studying about the French Revolution in class so I remembered more information. I still did some research, of course.

I definitely left out a couple things, but I kept most of the main ones.

By the way, Julien from the beginning is fictional. I put him there because…well, I don't really know.

Versailles was filled with rumormongers and gossip, hence why Marie was bombarded with them. Marie Antoinette wasn't too popular because she was Austrian and the French didn't like Austrians.

Louis XVI and Marie married at fifteen and fourteen years old, but they didn't have children until seven years into their marriage. It was believed that Louis was either really bad at having sex, didn't know how to have sex, or was infertile. Turns out he just didn't want to do it for seven years.

There's a legend saying that while Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was performing for the Marie Antoinette and her family at the age of six, he slipped and fell. Marie caught him and helped him back up. Mozart promptly kissed her on the cheek and said, "I will marry you someday."

Marie's mother wasn't too happy that Marie didn't have any children for seven years. At one point she directly told her daughter that she was no longer beautiful or charming.

"Après moi, le deluge." This is believed to be said by Louis XV, Louis XVI's predecessor. They say that Louis XV said this because he and Louis XIV had driven France into such a horrible debt that whoever was after Louis XV was going to have a super bad time. Turns out he was right. Sometimes this quote is credited to Louis XV's lover, though no one is too sure about that.

I figured that if France was really a person during that time, then he would've been the right candidate to inspire the passionless Louis XVI instead of Marie's brother Joseph. Haha.

Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, their children, and Louis' sister tried to escape France in 1791. They disguised themselves as servants and children to Russian royalty (who was actually Louis' sister) in order to escape. However, they were caught in Varennes. There is a belief that they were recognized because Louis' face is on the currency, so a local recognized them. Needless to say, the French weren't exactly happy that their leaders were going to abandon them.

I used primary resources for facts about Louis XVI's death.

Marie's last words were, "Pardon me, sir, I meant not to do it." She had accidentally stepped on the executioner's foot.

After their deaths, France went through the Reign of Terror, radical Jacobins, and Napoleon. One crazy revolution.