Chapter 18: Misty Rose (XVIII)

◎A sketch of François' life in Florence◎

François lived a very happy life in Florence.

As the actual ruler of the vast empire of Calais, he possesses countless wealth, power across the continent and a noble status, which makes everything he wants at his fingertips. Except for the time when he needed to stay under his brother's crown when he was young, he has never submitted to the orders of anyone - not even the Pope, the leader of the continent's faith.

The Pope... Humph, the Pope, he's nothing more than a being that needs to rely on the royal family of Gare to survive, François thought contemptuously as he kissed the cheek of the young woman in his arms and listened to her laughter.

The authority of Florence sounds good, as it controls the faith of all the people, but it is the country and the royal family who truly own these people. Since the decline of the Knights Templar, the appeal of Florence has been much weaker than before. Although those ignorant lambs are still foolishly willing to contribute their fortunes to the church, a lot of this money has been taken away by the lords and the royal family before reaching Florence.

Florence was of course aware of this terrible situation and was committed to changing it. Saint Vitalian III implemented the Holy Reform, and many of the measures taken were effective - results that the royal family and the lords were not happy to see. Fortunately, the unlucky Saint Vitalian III was assassinated soon, and his successor was a real

He was a complete fool, who was still thinking about how to rob the property of the Papal Palace until his death. The half-completed Holy Church Reform was thus shelved in a muddle.

François's visit to Florence this time, in addition to celebrating the coronation of Pope Sistine I, also had another purpose, which was to confirm whether the new Pope would once again implement reforms that were not beneficial to the royal family.

They are very satisfied with Florence's current situation, so they are not reluctant to give Florence the title of a holy city and give the empty glory to the Pope - as long as he is a little more obedient and content, does not do unnecessary things, and does not have unnecessary thoughts.

However, he didn't expect that before he could find out what he wanted to know, his target had already become disgusted with him and wanted to kick him back to Calais.

François was shirtless, with his white trousers hanging loosely around his waist. His muscular chest was smeared with transparent, shiny grease, imitating the habit of ancient Roman gladiators. His pure gold arm and neck rings were shining. The woman lying on the couch turned over and looked at his back with an obsessed look.

It is no secret that François loved ancient Roman civilization. In the royal palace in Calais, he imitated the habits of Roman nobles and built a spacious arena, open-air baths and academic square. Everyone who entered there had to wear ancient Roman costumes to create a retro atmosphere.

A girl dressed in a long gauze skirt and dressed as a slave was kneeling on the carpet, holding a golden cup filled with scarlet wine in her hand. She knelt to Francois' side, raised the golden cup high, and invited her brave master to relieve his fatigue.

François burst into laughter, bent down, put his arms around the slave girl's waist and picked her up from the ground. The slave girl screamed and the golden cup in her hand shook twice. She tried her best to hold it steady. François then took her hand, lowered his head and drank the glass of wine. Finally, he kissed the young girl hard on the lips.

Neither the woman on the couch nor the female slaves serving around showed the slightest surprise at such an absurd scene, as if they were already accustomed to it. They happily enjoyed the fragrant and mellow wine and inexhaustible delicacies. The long tables of different heights were filled with abundant and fresh fruits and food, which anyone could take without limit.

What is most lacking here are beautiful girls and handsome boys. They are of different ages, sitting in groups of two or three, talking in low voices or kissing each other, with a debauchery that is shocking. From time to time, someone leaves - or joins in, and no matter who they are, they will show a warm smile to those who join.

François was of course the most popular one among them. No matter where he went, there would be beautiful men and women trying to stop him. They were like the sweetest birds and the gentlest lambs, begging him to stay.

No one in Florence knew that François had built such a "paradise on earth" in his residence. The guards and servants around were all his confidants brought from Calais, and the men and women who entered it consciously kept their mouths shut about the chaotic scene here.

In addition to his lover who had similar hobbies to François, all the other beauties here were collected by him from the slums of Florence. All the outstanding men and women in the "Rose Room" and "Glass Workshop" were sold here. Some well-informed people simply came here to recommend themselves, and the rewards they received far exceeded their expectations.

At least François is not a stingy person. He is generous to an excessive degree. He throws gold, silver and jewelry around as if they were free. After staying here for a long time, they will find that money is actually the least worth mentioning thing here.

Disappearances in the slums were so common that even the Portia family, whose tentacles spread throughout Florence, were unaware of the abnormal changes here.

"Well, my little birds," Francois said gently to a girl who was holding his trouser legs. The other's female and male companions were sitting behind her looking at him expectantly. There was a tree with lush vines hanging beside them. Obviously, this was a silent invitation of joy. "I have to go out to do something. When I come back, I hope you still have the energy to receive me."

His refusal was gentle, but after hesitating for a moment, the girl let go of his hand obediently without acting like a spoiled child - the instinct of a child from the slums told her that this was not the time to act like a spoiled child, and the other party was definitely not someone who would allow her to act like a spoiled child.

François left here, leaving all the sweet talk behind him. His servants quickly helped him put on proper clothes as he walked. When he stepped out of the door, what appeared before Florence was a Duke of Calais dressed in fancy clothes and covered with jewels.

The carriage waiting at the door was as clean as new. The heavy and gorgeous frame inlaid with gold and gems sparkled in the sun, which was quite similar to François's dress. The man jumped into the carriage nimbly and grabbed the dagger from the servant. The white horse pulling the carriage shook its head and snorted. The coachman pulled the reins hard, and the mechanism at the bottom of the seat began to work. Snow-white steam sprayed out of the tail. The huge vehicle moved slowly, and then drove briskly on the ancient road of the holy city.

Shortly after he left, a tall black-haired boy appeared near the mansion. He was very alert and looked at the strict guards from afar. He did not approach, but just took a look and walked away as if nothing had happened. The guard glanced at him and saw that he was just a teenager, so he did not care.

"...Are you sure Mary is there?" the boy asked in a low voice.

The little girl whose hand he was holding lowered her head tightly, as if she was afraid of being seen: "I saw them taking Mary in. If I hadn't been sick, I would have been the one sent in..."

She choked up as she spoke, tears falling to the ground: "The priest said that Mary has gone to live a good life, but there is no way she would not come back to see me. We are good friends..."

The boy moved his lips and revealed a silent, sarcastic smile. What a naive and firm idea! He really wanted to say, if Mary really lived a good life, then what difficulty would there be in forgetting a good friend?

But he still didn't say this, and he heard Jenny sobbing and begging: "I... I ran away secretly. The priest said that you are now a big shot, very powerful, serving the Holy Father... Ferrante, can you help me? I will give you all my money, and I will work hard. I want to be with Mary..."

As Jenny spoke, tears welled up in her eyes again. Her golden hair was stuck to her face with sweat and tears, making it dirty. Ferrante, who had a rare day off but was told about this, froze in his face and his first reaction was to refuse.

He was not a naive child like Jenny. He knew very well what a great person lived in that mansion. He was a real big shot. What was he? The other party could crush him to death with just a flick of his finger, and Mary... Ferrante, who was born in a rose house, could guess what role Mary played in it.

Some people like beautiful and charming women, some people like slender and weak women, and some people like young girls. Mary is nine years old this year. She has light blonde hair and clear and round blue eyes. She is like the little angel on the mural. She is the cutest girl in the Holy Grail Church. Many people liked her in the past. Ferrante was not surprised at all that she was chosen and taken away.

He had told these young girls a long time ago that they should find a way to save money to leave the Holy Grail Church, even if it meant scratching their faces and becoming beggars, it would be better than staying here any longer. There would definitely be people who liked little girls, and they would always grow up, and when they grew up, they would have no choice but to end up in the Rose Room, which was even worse than the church.

But his advice was too cruel. The young girls could not understand its deep meaning, nor could they accept the horrifying suggestion of "scratching their faces", so the matter was eventually dropped and Ferrante no longer said anything extra to them.

Kindness in the slums is precious and rare, and being able to deliver a little is enough.

But perhaps because of this little bit of kindness, when Mary disappeared, Jenny's first reaction was still to look for this strange boy.

Ferrante's eyes swept over Jenny's tattered black robe. This familiar black robe had accompanied him for several years until he left the Holy Grail Church.

Jenny was looking at him expectantly, she believed that he was a "great man", just as the priest said, who could serve the Holy Father, but he was not that great, he was not even qualified to meet the Holy Father.

"I can't help you," Ferrante finally said these cruel words slowly, facing the girl's eyes full of expectation and trust. "I can't do it. I'm not as good as you think..."

Ferrante said expressionlessly, watching the hope in Jenny's eyes slowly disappear. The crystal tears accumulated more and more, and finally could not bear the weight of those tears and rolled silently down her cheeks.

"I..." The cold-blooded boy rolled his Adam's apple, his voice a little hoarse, "I can't do it."

"...But," Jenny trembled all over. She loosened her hand that was tightly grasping Ferrante's clothes and cried breathlessly, "Then can you, can you go and ask the Holy Father? The Holy Father...He loves us. Will he be willing to help me?"

Ferrante moved his lips but said nothing.

The saint was born to redeem the sins of the world. Would his sainthood... be willing to extend a hand to these souls in the mud? ⊙

They are dirty and humble. They are born in the quagmire of fate and are covered with dust since birth. They are trampled and spit on, struggling to survive in the cracks. Such people... dare to desire to touch the clean hem of the saint's clothes?

Ferrante suddenly laughed and said in a strange tone: "Then I'll go and ask for you."

However, before Ferrante could find a way to meet the Pope, Mary's body was sent back to the Church of the Holy Grail early one morning.

Death in the slums was a dust that was not worth mentioning. The matter was lightly wiped away by the few gold florins that were sent to the church along with the body, and no one mentioned it again.

At the same time, Raphael, who was far away in the Papal Palace, received François who came to visit according to etiquette. He used all his patience to deal with this arrogant cockerel. He took a deep breath, trying to resist the dizziness caused by the pungent and strong perfume on the other party, and said to himself: "I must kick this bastard back to Calais."

Julius, who was standing behind him, laughed softly and rubbed his temples without saying anything.

The author has something to say:

Jenny and Mary have appeared in the previous article. I wonder if you still remember them...