Marie

Her dark curls were carried up into the wind as she stood at the edge of the cliff, perceiving the deep blue of the water beneath her. Her hands held a white rose vigilantly tight, that it would not be blown away in the torrents of wind that came rushing to meet her from the sea. Her brother had given it to her, plucked from the washerwoman’s garden. She smiled as she remembered how he had arrived at this place to meet her, bearing this treasure proudly in his hand. Indeed he had overcome the great dangers of Madame de Vendome’s sleepless eye. What horrors that old crone would have done to him had he been caught! A fleeting shadow passed over her small face. But oh how brave her great Antoine had been! And then how gallantly he had knelt down on the grass and presented this rose in all its beauty and splendor to her delighted face.
“Will this help you to bear my leaving? For you do know I must go no later than tonight, else father will be very angry. You must learn to be brave my little dear.” He stood up as she took the rose. “How else shall I bear leaving myself, knowing you will cry at my going?” he had whispered through the wind. She had let a few tears escape her dark eyes as he embraced her firmly in his arms.
“And now he is gone.” Marie said in a small voice, made smaller by the sighs of the wind. A tear began to form but she quickly wiped it away before it could be remembered. She would be brave for him, and she would always keep this white rose.