Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

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At 9 in the morning, the conference hall in the east wing of the Palace of Versailles was once again convened to decide the destiny of France.

"So, let us begin the Cabinet resolution," Queen Mary surveyed the attendees on both sides of the expansive conference table. "Gentlemen, those who agree with Count de Simeon's proposal and believe that Archbishop Brienne should resign immediately, please show your support."

The Duke of Orleans immediately revealed a smug smile and slowly raised his right hand. He was utterly confident in toppling Brian—the day before, he had promised Nico Herve a full three hundred thousand livres, an enormous sum that was sure to tempt the "transparent minister."

Somiare and Vilran also raised their hands one after the other.

A moment of silence fell upon the hall.

The Duke of Orleans glanced at Nico Herve, signaling with his eyes that it was time for him to take action.

But there was no response.

The Duke of Orleans frowned, coughed softly, and whispered, "Ahem, Earl Nico."

Nico Herve, however, kept his gaze focused intently on the queen at the head of the conference table, as if he had heard nothing.

Queen Mary once again looked around and asked, "Anyone else?"

Seeing Nico Herve remaining as unmoving as a stone sculpture, the Duke of Orleans finally realized there was a problem and glared at him furiously, as if his gaze could pierce through Nico's chest.

Queen Mary, with her hands braced on the table, stood up and announced loudly, "According to the Cabinet's decision, Archbishop Brienne will continue to serve as the Finance Minister for the next two months."

She then turned to Brian, nodding in acknowledgment, "I hope you bring us good news in two months. If not, I trust you will remember your promise."

The queen turned and left.

The Duke of Orleans, seething with rage, turned around the conference table, wanting to confront the Minister of Civil Registry sitting on the other side, only to see the latter had already left through the golden doors without looking back, as if they had never met the previous night.

He dashed out of the conference hall but did not chase after Nico. Instead, he quickly exited the Palace of Versailles, hopped onto his carriage, and gnashed his teeth in anger, "Nico, the damned traitor!

"As for you, Brian, you're just wasting another two months. That bill will never pass!"

...

Royal Palace.

Huge crystal chandeliers illuminated the grand hall, over fifty meters in length.

In the oil paintings on the wall, the old Duke of Orleans looked proudly towards the middle-aged man on the platform in front of him, as if he were reporting to the Regent.

"We must do something!" shouted the middle-aged man with curly white hairpiece and a face marred by acne scars, gesticulating furiously with both hands, "Let's all write to his Majesty the King. Demanding Brian steps down immediately..."

The hall was filled with dozens of nobles, either standing or sitting, all echoing loudly:

"Yes! Brian has betrayed everyone here; he shall be punished!"

"How dare they expect us to pay the same taxes as those commoners, it's an insult!"

Anyone who had attended the Assembly of Notables earlier in the year would recognize that the participants were members of the Assembly, the most influential nobles.

By the arched window on the west side, a man nearly forty, with a broad face and a double chin, whispered to the person beside him, "We just had a gathering like this ten days ago, why another one?"

The noble next to him replied, "Count Mirabeau, are you not aware of the Cabinet meeting from a couple of days ago?"

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"I heard that Count Somiare launched a motion to dismiss Archbishop Brienne, but it failed."

The nobleman laughed, "Although he wasn't dismissed, Queen Mary has demanded that he get the tax legislation registered within two months, or else she will exile him to Corsica."

Mirabeau nodded slightly, previously, Finance Minister Carolina had been exiled for not successfully pushing the tax legislation, and if Brienne were to fail as well, it would be a declaration to all the nobility that the High Court had the power to regulate the authority of the Royal Family.

He also revealed a smile, "This gathering will unite us even more, and in two months, we will ultimately prevail."

At this moment, in a room on the second floor, the Duke of Orleans glanced down at the bustling hall and then turned, raising his glass with a smile, "Look, gentlemen, everyone is on our side."

Those before him also raised their glasses, one said, "Correcting the mistakes of the Royal Family is the duty of the High Court."

"I've seen that bill, it's filled with absurdities. I believe no judge would ever allow it to be registered."

"That's right. But even if Archbishop Brienne makes significant changes to the clauses, we can't let the bill pass."

"Exactly, this time it's outright provocation to the High Court!"

The Duke of Orleans laughed and nodded, enthusiastically clinking glasses with a few others.

These men were the most powerful judges of the High Court; any legislation that wished to be registered would need their approval.

With the commitments from the judges and the support of the great nobles in the hall, even if Brienne were incredibly capable, he would have to roll obediently off to Corsica in two months.

"Oh, by the way, I've also prepared some surprises for everyone." The Duke of Orleans indicated towards several tightly closed doors to the side, his expression insinuating, "I hope you'll like them."

The judges exchanged glances, responding with knowing smiles.

They knew these were activities the Duke of Orleans provided for his esteemed guests. The ones inside those rooms weren't ordinary performers but carefully selected beauties; although reportedly of dubious origins, they were indeed rarely seen in this world.

The men nodded their thanks to the Duke of Orleans, then picked up mummy powder that had already been prepared on a nearby table, each chose a room, and entered with licentious laughter.

The pharaohs of ancient Egypt could not possibly have dreamed that their bodies, so meticulously prepared for resurrection, would be ground into powder thousands of years later and consumed as aphrodisiacs.

...

Paris Commercial News Agency.

In a warehouse over ten meters wide, the smell of ink and a faint scent of mold permeated the air. More than a dozen workers, dressed in coarse gray-yellow clothes with cracked faces and hands, were busy using ropes to bundle books into stacks, then arranging them neatly on wooden planks.

The piles of books in the warehouse stood over two meters high, filling half the space.

Suddenly, the door was pushed open. A handsome young man in a luxurious dark blue coat and an otter fur tricorn hat walked in.

The workers, sensing his very high status, stopped their tasks and nervously stepped back, bowing their heads.

The young man greeted with a smile, "Please continue with your work, don't mind me..."

As he spoke, a foreman wearing a felt cap and dressed in a black leather jerkin and trousers, carrying a wooden club, suddenly came from the other side and hit the closest worker with a stick, "Laziness! It's not time to rest yet, do you all want a beating?"

After taking a few steps and about to strike another worker, the foreman looked up and saw the noble young man and the arriving manager Denico, who had just entered the warehouse, and immediately understood what was happening.

He hastily bowed, "Your lordship, I hope I didn't offend you.

"Mr. Denico, you've arrived."

The youth was Joseph. He snatched the foreman's club, threw it on the ground, and said coldly, "Next time, if you hit someone without understanding the situation, you'll be out of a job! This time you're fined three days' pay."