One night in 1648, Cardinal Mazaran, the prime minister of France, the favorite and lover of the regent queen mother, followed many followers, frowned, and hurriedly walked through the gloomy arcade, passed the semi-barren hall, broken walkways and stairs that circled up or down, and came outside the king's suite. The imperial guards in the guard hall immediately jumped up from their chairs to salute him, and almost overturned the small table among them, which was piled with cards and brown Su (copper coins) mixed with silver Eju (silver coins) - it seemed that these gentlemen were busy with another kind of battle, but at this time the bishop had no intention of caring about their small mistakes: "I want to see Your Majesty immediately."

The team officer of the imperial guards immediately went to report. It took about a minute less than a minute. Bang Tang, the chief manager of the king's bedroom, grabbed his nightcap and opened the door for the Cardinal. Mazaran waved his hand and left his entourage outside the door. He walked in alone. Without waiting for the king to ask questions, he said: "We want to leave here immediately. Your Majesty, it is no longer safe here."

"Are they finally here? Those traitors?" asked the king.

"Yes." Mazaran said, and then he was relieved to see the king who was still a child jumping up from the bed. The latter did not even waste time waiting for the help of the first servant of the inner palace. He quickly put on a heavy trousers and a velvet coat. When his hidden cloak brought him a cloak for him, Mazaran stopped him. The bishop had been wearing an inconspicuous large black coat in the bend of his arms. He pressed the coat on the king's tender shoulders, and then covered the king's extremely conspicuous light golden curly hair with a hat decorated with an ordinary gray feather.

When everything was right, Mazaran stretched out his hand and held the king's shoulder. The king ascended the throne at the age of five and is now only a ten-year-old child, but he is as strong as people expected, far exceeding his children of the same age in any aspect. Mazaran put his arm on his shoulder effortlessly, and they walked out the door like a close friend.

The red light illuminated the small piece of glass divided by the black iron frame. It was not the initial or final brilliance that the sun cast to mankind when it rose or landed, but the light of torches and candles gathered in the courtyard. In the courtyards of the palace, there were no less than ten four-wheeled carriages, which looked almost exactly the same, and were pulled by four horses of different colors. The identity of the passengers inside could not be distinguished. But Maza could obviously recognize a certain code. He led the king to a carriage. The coachman immediately opened the door, revealing a beautiful woman in a black long skirt and a maid who was too young.

As soon as she saw the king, she immediately reached out and the king held it immediately, and as he got on the carriage, he turned around, "Mr. Cardinal," he asked, "Where is my brother, Duke of Anjou?"

"He is with me." Mazaran replied.

The king paused for a moment, and then he thought that this move was to ensure that the royal blood would not be wiped out in the riot. He stopped saying anything. As soon as he got on the carriage, the coachman immediately closed the carriage door. The wheels of the carriage sounded. About thirty imperial guards wearing short coats, ordinary cloaks (rather than the usual uniform cloak), wide-brimmed hats, long swords, sabers and four muskets also drove the horses under him, ten in front, twenty incest, followed around in a guard posture.

The other four-wheeled carriages followed closely behind the dark courtyard. Most of these carriages were foreign guests, important court officials and those who were considered to be protected by Bishop Mazaran. However, no matter how important they were, they could not compare with the two carriages. After all, one of them carried the king and the queen mother of France, and the other carried the brothers and the actual rulers of the kingdom.

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Soon, the carriage turned around in one place and walked into the weedy avenue. It was supposed to be considered a simple fortress built on the open mud. When they saw them galloping over, a group of thugs hiding behind the fortress threw stones and burning fire balls. The imperial guards immediately returned their colors. The people immediately ran away, even the wounded who fell to the ground and groaned endlessly.

"Who are they?" The little maid beside the Queen Mother asked curiously while peeking out through the gaps in the curtains.

"My people." said the king, with a sarcastic smile on his lips. Although there were soldiers who rebel nobles privately saved and thugs bought with a lot of money, there were more ordinary Parisians. They were incited and bewitched and took to the streets to oppose their prime ministers and kings, just to gain some small profits. They neither loved their king nor were loyal to him, and now they even wanted to harm him.

The king looked at the bold little maid: "You shouldn't ask the king before the king speaks, who are you?"

"Mary Mancini." The maid replied, "My uncle is Cardinal Mazaran."

The king nodded, it was understandable. Although Mancini didn't sound like a Frenchman or a noble surname, Mazaran's origin was already well-known. However, he couldn't help but guess whether Mazaran loved his niece very much. After all, this was the first time he saw Mazaran use the power and trust given to him by the Queen Mother for a small person.

"You should relive the etiquette. Miss Mancini." said the king.

Mary Mancini tried to retort, but the next moment, her voice was strangled in her throat by a violent bump.

The king immediately stood up vigilantly, leaned against the wall of the car, looking out the car. Paris at that time was not as prosperous and peaceful as a capital of a country hundreds of years later. Especially after several wars between Catholics and Puritans, the city was devastated everywhere. People could see wild wolves on the streets at night, foxes and rabbits everywhere in the cemetery. The road without repair and maintenance was as full of pits as the skin of lepers.

It is conceivable that the carriage is like a small boat in a storm, jogging up and down. The Queen Mother looked at her eldest son and looked pale. She was the princess of Spain and then the queen of France. Although she was not loved by her husband, she had not suffered such torture: "Your Majesty," she begged, "Let them slow down."

"Sorry," her son replied gently but coldly: "I can't."
Chapter completed!