Francis, grand fere, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for not speaking to you for so long.
I'm sorry for every single mean thing that I've told you since the Revolution.
Please don't cry over me, I'm not worth it.
Just remember me and how we used to be.
Remember the days we spent exploring or just when we would just lay in the meadows.
Remember the hours spent on the yacht when we would just talk and laugh together.
How you taught we how to dance and told me everything.
You'd sing me to sleep in my naitive langauge and then if I was up because of a nightmare you'd stay by my side.
Take care of yourself mon roi. Love forever and always, votre Petite Princesse Mona.
France hadn't slept since she died and he hadn't left her room. He tearfully read the letter that she had left. Her room reeked of all the white roses that had been strung up. He couln't look away from the dress bag that hung in her closet. The beautiful, white, wedding dress that she would never wear. The matching tiara lay on her desk and the heels on her window seat. He couldn't help but open one of her drawers. A small box lay inside. Addressed to him. He grabbed it shakily and opened the lid. Another note lay inside.
I don't deserve this, give to someone that you love. I'm sorry.
His eyes widened at the sight of the beautiful silver ring. The rubies still sparkled like they did the day he gave it to her. He picked the ring up and smiled at what he had engraved inside of it. Mon Petite Princesse. He collasped to the ground in tears then, the ring held tightly in his hand. The only thing that could be heard was I am so sorry Mona.