His face is lined, and his hair isn't the gold of his youth. But still he is beautiful. Still he is enough to draw stares, and people to him.
He knows that the others are most likely dead, and even if not, he will never see them again.
He will die. Soon. Two hundred years, he has left, tops. The child he once was would laugh at him. An old man, close to death. The real France will never die ! But, if this were to happen, he would hush the child, smile, and tell him of how little he knew.
Death is terrifying. He was catholic, once. Once he was so sure. But now he doubts everything. He used to think that he'd die with England by his side, he used to think he would die, if ever, with people.
But now he is alone.
A grey, weathered once-nation, kept only alive by the descendants of his people, sits on another planet, in another universe, and weeps for the years lost, and for what he can no longer have.