Marie was a sweet girl. He'd met her once before, long ago as two strangers in passing, palms pressed together as they danced. And now, here she was, facing the executioner. They'd cut her hair brutally short, put her in a sack of a dress, but the delicate beauty he remembered was still there.
He watched as she stepped on the executioner's toes and apologized. The last time he had seen the guillotine used, he could've sworn time had stopped. This time was quicker. It was already over, the audience already starting to cheer, the rosy cheeks already turned blue. France began to make his way through the crowd.
How had it come to this? No one could tell France, and he understood it least of all. The screams haunted him at night. Mornings would arrive with a pillow drenched in sweat.
The people were starving, some for food and others for change, but you couldn't tell from the crowds today. He crossed the street to where his carriage waited, a band of revelers closely behind. He glanced back and watched their drawn out faces stretch in smiles.
"Do you know where she is to be buried?" France asked.
"No, sir. And what does it matter?" That was their answer.
The gardens of Versailles were empty. He stood in its wake, breathing in the crisp scent of October. The kids had done a fine job in making the palace even more beautiful, and France began to walk slowly down the lime and chestnut avenue. They'd wanted it done in the English style, he'd last heard, but it wasn't possible. He smiled at the thought, happy not to give England the satisfaction.
Slowly he made his way to the queen's apartment in the south, where the children's rooms were.
The windows had been broken, the sharp scent of lime permeating the room. Books were strewn about, along with papers written in childish scrawl. Toys littered the carpet, along with broken glass.
He moved on now, to the queen's room. The windows had been sealed shut, a small cobweb spun on the panes, illuminated by the setting sun. The smell of perfume was still strong and France found himself breathing it in.
It stung.
He shut the doors behind him carefully, desperate to preserve what he had seen, as if anything happening to the room would somehow alter his memories later on.
He found himself out in the gardens once again, the sun already gone. The people were still celebrating, their shouts waning but consistent, like a ringing in his ears. They finally gave up around the time he found himself in bed, his hand on his chest.
When had it started to hurt like that? Like a blade had split it in half, sliced his heart right down the middle? He had a long time to ponder it, as sleep never came.