The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 495: Your Majesty, You May Be Cursed by the Devil! (Subscription Request, Vote Request)
February 1855, 2, Rome, Vatican Palace.

The Order of the Golden Fleece glowed dully in the candlelight, like rotten wood. The withered fingers of Pius IX, the ruler of the Roman Catholic Church, stroked the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's letter wrapped in bright yellow silk, and his knuckles tapped on the cracks in the armrest of the throne, making a light "thump" sound.

"You mean, angels or prophets really came to China? Archbishop Paul de Doria." The old pope's voice was hoarse and old. He looked at the setting sun cruising between the columns. The Corinthian capitals that were once covered with gold were now only bare stones.

The corner of the cardinal's robe swept across the cracks of the mosaic floor tiles, and the scent of expensive incense from the East pierced the musty smell that had accumulated in the palace for countless years. Archbishop Paul de Doria took out a wax-sealed envelope and handed it to the elderly pontiff with both hands, his voice trembling slightly: "Papa, there is a prophecy in it, a prophecy that can prove that a new era, a new era belonging to God, has arrived!"

"Oh? Another prophecy? What is it this time?" The old Pope took the envelope.

"A person who is extremely important to the whole of Europe is going to die next month!" Paul de Doria said in a cold tone.

"What?" The Pope exclaimed, and fear suddenly appeared in his gray eyes. The scarlet wax shattered into powder between his fingers. The yellowish letter soon appeared on the old hand, and the Latin cursive words jumped out of the paper.

"Nicholas I. March" The horrified expression in Pius IX's sunken eye sockets suddenly dissipated, and then condensed into deep doubt again. He stared at the cardinal in front of him, "Is this a prophet's prophecy, or a devil's curse?"

Paul de Doria shrugged, his lips curled up slightly: "Papa, does it make any difference? Prophet or devil, it can't be science anyway. Science is the biggest enemy of the church, and truth outside of science, even if it comes from Muhammad, can help the Roman Church revive!"

The Pope fully understood what Paul de Doria meant. Where science has no influence, there is room for "shamanism". And the prophecies in the Book of Prophets cannot be explained by science. At least the most outstanding scientists in Europe cannot explain how the accurate prophecies in the Book of Prophets were made.

"In fact, he has helped the church achieve revival to a certain extent." Paul de Doria stared at the Pope who was lost in thought, with a glimmer of hope in his sunken blue eyes. "Papa, you now have a division!"

"A division?" The Pope was stunned for a moment, then again, and asked with a puzzled look on his face, "My division?"

Paul de Doria nodded heavily, his tone firm: "Yes, a Crusader Division!"

The pope looked confused and asked, "Where is it?"

"Macau! It's in Macau!" Paul de Doria took out a scroll from his bishop's robe as if by magic, and handed it to the Pope with both hands carefully. "Papa, this is the treaty for the lease of Macau signed between me and the Prime Minister of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, the gentleman who is called the prophet or the devil. Now, Macau has become a concession of the church!"

"Macau? Isn't that Portuguese territory?" The Pope was stunned again, subconsciously took the scroll, slowly unfolded it and began to read. As expected, the treaty clearly stated in black and white that Macau, a legendary land, was leased to the Roman Church by the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom for thirty years.

After reading the treaty, the Pope frowned and stared at the cardinal in front of him: "Paul, I can already imagine the anger of the Portuguese regent after learning about this. How do you plan to let the church deal with this difficult situation?"

Paul de Doria looked nonchalant: "The Portuguese? That's not a problem at all! Victor Emmanuel II, Camillo Cavour and Giuseppe Garibaldi are what we really need to pay attention to!"

"They?" the Pope asked in confusion. "Why?"

"Because they will unify Italy!"

"Unified Italy. Is it complete unification?" The Pope certainly knew very well what a unified Italy meant to the Roman Catholic Church!
"Well," the cardinal said with a look of regret, "except the Vatican Palace!"

"Oh God!" the Pope quickly crossed himself and muttered to himself, "I hope I won't see that day come!"

"Yes, you will. You will live a long time and you will definitely experience all of this in person!" Paul De Doria took out a wax-sealed envelope again. "This is the prophecy that the prophet or Mr. Devil has specially tailored for you. Do you want to take a look?"

"Me? My prophecy." The Pope's hands trembled slightly, and his eyes flashed with complex light.

"Yes," the cardinal said solemnly, "but the future is not immutable, it can be changed! This may be the real purpose of God sending him to the world!"

“Change?” the Pope asked, taking the wax-sealed envelope. “How?”

The cardinal smiled meaningfully and said slowly, "Let's start by spreading the news that the Tsar will die next month!" There was a cunning light in his eyes. "This will definitely be interesting, won't it?"

St. Petersburg, early March 1855.

As the cold wind from the Neva River pierced the windows of the Winter Palace, Nicholas I's fingers flushed as he clutched the Crimean war report. A half-cup of liquor spiked with cocaine was placed on a military map that covered the entire desk. "Your Majesty, the head of the Third Department, Cavalry General Alexei Fedorovich Orlov, urgently requests an audience."

Suddenly, a secretary's announcement was heard outside the office.

"Hurry, let him in!" The Tsar picked up the glass again and took a big gulp of cocaine wine.

The Third Department of the Tsar's Private Office is also known as the Tsar's Secret Service. It is in charge of secret police and police and is only responsible to the Tsar personally. The person who can hold this position is undoubtedly the Tsar's most trusted confidant.

The 69-year-old cavalry general Orlov was born into a prominent family. He joined the army in 1804 and participated in the war against Napoleon. He served as an aide to Alexander I and suppressed the Decembrist uprising for Nicholas I in December 1825. He was awarded the title of count and became a confidant of Nicholas I. He then participated in the Seventh Russo-Turkish War and suppressed the Polish Revolution. From 1844, he became the director of the Third Department and became the Tsar's right-hand man.

But such a big shot who has always had everything he wants has been exhausted over the past year or so, and has aged rapidly. There are only a few strands of his originally thick silver hair left, and his originally smooth and rosy face is now covered with wrinkles, and the pair of blue eyes in the deep eye sockets are always filled with worry and doubt.

The door of the office was pushed open, and the elderly cavalry general walked quickly to the front of the Tsar and gave a standard military salute. When he heard the door close behind him, he showed panic and uneasiness on his face, and stared at the Tsar with a ruddy face.

"What's going on?" The Tsar looked at his confidant, "The French are sending more troops to Crimea?"

The winter in the Crimean Peninsula has ended, and a new round of brutal fighting is about to begin. Last year's war has taught the Tsar that his army is definitely not as strong as it looks! This is not because Russian warriors are not brave enough, but because Russia's enemies are now equipped with new rifled guns and steam warships.

The Russian army was almost identical to the one that Emperor Napoleon encountered, only much larger in size. As for the Russian navy, although they were not as good as the British Royal Navy in the past, they still had the strength to fight, but now facing the British steam gunboats, the Russian sailing battleships could only hide in the port of Sevastopol and survive.

Once this fortress on the Black Sea is breached by the enemy, the Russian Empire will face a humiliating defeat!

"My Lord, you guessed it right!" The Chief of the Secret Service nodded heavily, "The French are preparing to increase the number of troops besieging Sevastopol to more than 10!"

"10. We can hold it! We can definitely hold it!" The Tsar gritted his teeth. "Brave Russians have never been afraid of the French. We defeated Napoleon I. What's his clown nephew?"

The chief of the secret service knitted his silver eyebrows tightly together, his face was filled with worry, and he looked at the Tsar with the eyes of a man visiting a dying patient.

"Alexei Fedorovich, do you have anything else to report?" The Tsar looked at the chief of the secret service in front of him.

"Oh, yes, that's right. We also got some strange news from Rome, and it's a bit scary!" The chief of detectives tried hard to organize his words.

"What news?" Nicholas I looked at his confidant, "Is there anything you can't tell me?"

"Your Majesty, have you been feeling unwell recently?" The Chief of the Secret Service seemed to have become the Tsar's personal physician. "Do you need to rest for a while? And should you pay attention to your diet? Do you need to arrange for your servants to test the poison? Do you need to invite His Excellency Filaret Drozdov, the Patriarch of Moscow, to St. Petersburg?"

The Tsar interrupted the chief of the secret service: "Ah? What are you talking about? My cavalry general, you think I am sick? I am very healthy, you didn't see my face, so rosy and shiny, like a red apple! Are you worried that someone will poison me? Well, arrange more guards, this is your duty. But why call the Patriarch of Moscow?"

"My Lord, someone wants to harm you!" The Chief of Secret Service stammered, "The news comes from the Pope himself. You, you may be cursed!"

"Curse?" The Tsar stared, "What nonsense are you talking about?"

"No, no, no, you must not take it lightly," said the chief of detectives. "The one who cursed you was the prophet or the devil from the East!"

"It was him?" The Tsar's expression suddenly became serious. "What did he curse me for?"

"He, he said you would die in March of the Gregorian calendar, 1855."

"What? This." The Tsar was stunned. "What day is today in the Gregorian calendar?"

"March 3st. Today is March 1st!"

(End of this chapter)