Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

Paris, Saint-Germain District.

In a luxurious villa on the east side of Saint-Germain Boulevard, a salon was being held.

The hostess, Lady Valville, listened to the philosophical words of the guests, occasionally clapping her hands gently in delight.

The servants brought platters of snacks and fruits to each guest's table and refilled empty wine glasses with expensive wine.

After several young guests had made lively opening remarks, a middle-aged man with disheveled hair stood up. Before he even spoke, he was greeted with a round of cheers:

"Mr. Mara, we have been waiting to hear your esteemed opinion!"

"The highlight of today has arrived."

"Mr. Mara, your article was written so well, I've read it several times!"

"Everyone be quiet, let Mr. Mara speak…"

Mr. Mara smiled and gestured to the crowd with his hand on his chest, then raised his right hand and said in a loud voice:

"Today, I want to talk about the most corrupt, darkest place in Paris, which is the High Court!

"You all must have heard, just two days ago, they actually dispatched the publishing police to harass the Paris Commercial News office for no reason, even attempting to shut it down!

"Those madmen, filthy maggots! Using their censorship power, they kept many articles revealing the truth from being published in the Paris Commercial News; they are the enemies of freedom!

"Those hypocritical judges think that newspapers and publications are playthings to be manipulated at will, thinking they can control the thoughts of the people…"

His speech was harsh and incisive, and his tone and demeanor were highly infectious. As far as inciting emotion went, his ability was off the charts.

The dozens of people sitting around him voiced their agreement from time to time and responded with enthusiastic applause.

They were all influential journalists in Paris, and Mr. Mara was the most authoritative opinion leader in this circle.

After Mr. Mara set the tone with a brilliant speech, the entire salon revolved around criticizing the High Court. Lady Valville, with a face full of admiration, urged several recorders to make sure to jot down every detail of the speeches.

Mr. Mara picked up the wine in front of him, gave a thumbs-up gesture to the journalist who was speaking, and then turned to the young journalist on his right with wild hair and sharp eyes, saying in a low voice:

"Viscount Demulan, my old friend, we haven't seen each other in a long time, have we?"

Demulan nodded respectfully:

"Yes, it has been more than half a year since I've seen you. I've always wanted to visit you, but I was afraid of disturbing you."

Mr. Mara said with a smile:

"You know I am always happy to see you. By the way, I remember you once served as a judge at the High Court for a few years, didn't you?"

Demulan's face reddened with anger:

"Yes, that is true. Just as you said, that is a filthy place, and I truly could not endure it, so I resigned and became a journalist. Every time I see my father, he scolds me for this."

Mr. Mara lowered his voice slightly:

"Then you must know quite a bit about those corrupt judges, right?"

Demulan said:

"I know a lot. I even have some evidence still in my possession."

Mala's eyes lit up suddenly, and he said solemnly,

"We must, like warriors, bravely expose the crimes of those scoundrels to the people!"

Demulan nodded seriously:

"I, I'll listen to you! Right, I also know, know a few friends who have worked at the court, they, they must also want to do, do something!"

...

Just one day later, a large number of manuscripts were sent from Demulan's apartment to various newspapers in Paris.

Unlike those manuscripts that analyzed the pros and cons of the court system or criticized the court's interference with press freedom, this time the manuscripts contained real cases.

Cases of High Court judges' corruption and bribery that led to countless tragedies.

Not only were the cases described clearly, but the writing was extremely inflammatory, clearly the work of an expert.

Naturally, such material would not dare be published in newspapers, but the teams that produced pamphlets treated it like a treasured gift, beginning to type and print throughout the night.

Of course, there were bold newspapers, like a tabloid called the "Paris Morning Post," that published these cases directly without censorship.

The next morning, tens of thousands of pamphlets containing the dirty deeds of the High Court judges started circulating through Paris.

Real cases resonated with readers much more easily than any theoretical or policy analysis, especially the tragic fate of the victims in the cases, which infuriated countless Parisians.

The protesting skills embedded in the genes of the French people were instantly activated. Before long, under the leadership of some journalists, hundreds of citizens gathered spontaneously outside the High Court, incessantly cursing and protesting loudly. The more daring threw mud and excrement over the court's walls.

After half a day, when the citizens realized the police were only patrolling outside the High Court and not bothering with the protesting crowd, they joined in droves, and the numbers swelled exponentially.

The women formed a "logistics team," distributing bread and water to everyone, which even brought the homeless into the protest.

Street speeches became more frequent, and the speakers could even receive prepared speeches—coming directly from Mala, definitely full of inflammatory material—prompting the audience to cry out in agitation.

At the corner of Sevigne Street, a man dressed in a dark gray overcoat shook his head in distress, saying something to the fat man beside him.

From nearby came a fervent voice that caught their attention, "…the so-called justice and morality of those judges are nothing but silver coins! Miss Angers' fortune was shamelessly awarded to that villain, while she was driven out of her home in the cold snow…"

They glanced at a few policemen chatting not far away and curiously squeezed into the crowd around the speaker.

The speech continued, "But even so, according to that perverse verdict, she still owes that villain a huge sum of money! Do you know her fate? At the age of twenty-three, she died from exhaustion in the laundry room of a workhouse, her body covered with frostbite…"

The man in the gray overcoat felt a surge of rage in his chest; he pinched the script in his pocket and said to the fat man,

"I've decided, I'll stage this play when I get back!"

The fat man too was filled with outrage, nodding vigorously,

"Shall we perform next Wednesday at the Comedy Theatre of France?"

"No!" the man in the gray overcoat said, "Free street performances, we need to show it to more people, and I'll cover the costs!"

He was the leader of the troupe that had collaborated with the Paris Commercial News, staging "Breaking Sky."

He had just gone to the newspaper to discuss subsequent novel adaptations for the stage when Denico handed him a script—the story of an Ottoman judge accepting bribes, which was actually an allusion to the Paris High Court.

He had originally not wanted to take the play, knowing he could be troubled by the censorship department at any time, but the speech just now made him decide to become a warrior!

Moreover, performing in this play meant securing a contract with the Paris Commercial News for novel adaptations for the next year.