I'm so charming, there are always men who love me

"Her looks are rivaled only by the goddesses of the heavens, and it is condescending to ask her to be a princess on earth. Her divine splendor can't save men, it can only lead them to the path of destruction. Her every glance and smile will send us to hell." --Don Juan In 1572, the Ten Years' War of Religion had severely eroded the fabric of France, with Catholics and Protestants locked in a tit-for-tat conflict that was growing. The power of the French royal court was in the hands of Catherine of Italy of the Medici family, a Catholic, who, as queen mother and regent, had been in charge of France since her husband's death, shrewd, ruthless and conniving. And to quell the hatred, Catherine was to marry her youngest daughter, Marguerite de Valois, nineteen, to Henry, King of the Protestant kingdom of Valra. Marguerite, who inherits the bloodline of the Valois dynasty of France and the Medici family of Italy, is beautiful and madly beautiful, and underneath her long, seaweed-like black hair, she has a stunning look that makes all of Paris fall over itself in fawning admiration, and all of the French are proud that such a voluptuous flower has opened up on their soil. Everyone knows that the impending wedding is a political conspiracy, but in the middle of August a heat wave hits Paris and thousands of Protestants rush to the wedding, crowding the streets and inns, while angry Parisians are already on the brink of a storm. Marguerite's wedding, a symbol of peace and reconciliation, is about to trigger the largest m******e in French history. But perhaps, due to some supernatural phenomenon, she will no longer follow the path of history. On the eve of the wedding-- In the Palace of Fontainebleau, on the left bank of the Seine, Marguerite, who is to be married tomorrow, is standing in the Hall of the Promenade of François I. She does not look the least bit nervous or shy about getting married, but rather looks with interest at a beautiful fresco with a Renaissance style. Splendor and elegance of the gallery, her face wearing a small black satin mask, covering the charming forehead and bridge of the nose, on the body of the gorgeous and luxurious dark blue dress bare breasts and low neckline, revealing a woman's unique sexy curves. Margaret stood alone, looking extravagant, sultry, gorgeous and mysterious, the lamps pulled her shadow long, with an inexplicable sense of loneliness, as if she was about to usher in a destined tragedy. Queen Dowager Catherine stood outside the gallery, watching her youngest daughter in silence. What kept coming back to her mind were images from more than a decade ago - the Fifty-five-nine years ago, during the reign of King Henry II of France, influenced by his mistress, Diana, to treat Queen Catherine with cold disregard, Catherine de Medici, who was obviously of distinguished birth and had conceived nine children, was completely powerless. In France, where Sacrilegal inheritance laws were strictly enforced, women had no inheritance rights to their parents' property or status, even though she came from the Medici family and her mother was an honored French princess. No one knows of Catherine's resentment toward the Sacli Code during her decades-long life of disempowerment. She was sidelined, and even when the king left France on campaign, and she was appointed regent, her powers were very limited. In those days of passivity and even misery, the only figure that could be called light was surprisingly that of Marguerite. Catherine still remembers vividly how, at the age of four, Margaret, dressed in a little red cloak, walked alone through the long, dark corridors at night when no one was looking and knocked on the door of her mother's room, where she had been treated so coldly. Catherine had never been a good mother; she was cold-blooded and vicious, and her husband's cold treatment had made her even more brutal. The out-of-favor queen had once beaten Margaret so badly for no apparent reason that the golden carved wooden dresser stool inlaid with rhinestones had hit her on the back with a sort of wooden snapping sound, when she was five, or was it six? Catherine, too, had held her little daughter in her arms and wept, whispering over and over again-- "I will not let you live as I have lived; I will abolish the law of Sacri succession for you; I will make my daughter the most honored woman in the Valois dynasty." During those years of losing her dignity and being powerless, she had only Margaret. Margot, her Margot... "Buzz--" The heavy bell rang, and Margaret turned to see her mother--the Queen Dowager Catherine, who had used her as a decoy to create this political marriage scam in an attempt to wipe out the Protestants. Under the dim lamp, her pale and sinister face is bright and dark, and her black dress looks more and more cold-blooded and vicious. Perhaps in this cruel prosperous royal court, the so-called true love can only survive in the gap between illusion and reality. Queen Dowager Catherine looked at her youngest daughter, even with half of her face covered, she was still swooningly beautiful, her hair was like ebony, her skin glistened like snow, and her eyes, which were as blue as the deep sea, could almost shatter the hearts and souls of others. It was as if she was a flower born from palace intrigue, forbidding and beautiful, with the scent of ingested blood. "Buzz--" The bell sounded once more, thick and distant. Marguerite had an impish smile on her lips, "You see, all the bells of the city of Paris are about to ring in honor of this wedding." "If I had not appeared here, I fear you would be preparing to run off and steal pleasure in the streets of Paris," Queen Dowager Catherine said in a quiet tone, "as an expression of your distaste for this wedding." Catherine knew full well that her daughter was not without other means of defiance, and in this prosperous and corrupt court, Marguerite, renowned for her beauty, hid her political skills and heart, which were no less than those of any male, and turned willingly to become one of her blades. Margaret accepts the wedding because Catherine is fully committed to her son, the weak Charles IX. Catherine is not beautiful, even slightly mediocre face pale and disoriented. She gazed at Marguerite, who had made the whole of France pour out its fawning admiration, and perhaps she alone knew how many men she had stigmatized as the daughter of a noble debauchee, and how much she had held up with her white forelock that men could not bear. When her brother, King Charles, in front of the pressure of a huge religious struggle, nearly collapse, it is she will Charles on the shoulder, to be carefully soothing. When the Protestants were in danger of death, it was she, again and again, to give timely help, and even in the streets of Paris, she bravely stood up to block the Catholic mob's butcher knife. But today, it is she who is forced to be the bait in this political marriage scam. Margaret was looking at her mother with a smile on her face, not embarrassed by being poked at for her expected debauchery, "You don't seem to be ashamed or offended by it." Queen Dowager Catherine's gaze was deep as if it implied some sort of pathos, "As I said, all that a male noble can enjoy, you have all of it, this royal court has trampled countless women to prosperity and decline, they cannot call you slutty and insolent just because you do the same behaviors as a male noble." Marguerite looked at her mother's unusual look and frowned inquiringly, "--what is the matter with you?" Queen Mother Catherine's tongue was dry and her voice was so low that even Margaret, who was standing in front of her, could not hear it, "Even if it was to turn my back on God, I couldn't put you in that position." Vilified as the most debauched woman in France? Lost and abandoned by her husband, sick and dying at Notre Dame? No, her Margot could never have come to such a miserable end. Margaret frowned, clearly confused as to why her shrewd, strong and ruthless mother was acting so strangely, even a little fragile and uneasy. Queen Dowager Catherine gave her a deep look, then she whispered to the dark end of the gallery, her voice humble and low, "I would like to make a covenant with you." Margaret subconsciously looked over, and at the dark end of the darkness, there gradually came the sound of extremely oppressive footsteps, a rhythm that seemed to tread on the drums of the undead. Gradually emerged figure of the man is extremely tall, black cloak almost touched the ground, the light suddenly became dim, Margaret could not see his face, but for some reason, there is a kind of want to prostrate on their knees feeling of oppression. He seemed to be laughing, his voice seemed to come from above, "Fragile souls are always extraordinarily prone to sinking, and what in this world is more satisfying than a loyal believer turning his back on God" His voice carried a certain magic, and Margaret's eyes dimmed before her, and they were closing from heaviness. Before she fainted, she seemed to hear the voice of Queen Dowager Catherine, "Margot, you will have all that has been denied you from your birth." Split me, tear me, cut my heart open Fling me across the seas of space & the fabric of time From nothing, make me everything Bang! There was a loud bang in his ears. Margaret jerked awake, and as soon as she opened her eyes she saw a pure white, unadorned ceiling, obviously not the gilt and carved, extremely luxurious vaulted ceiling of her bedroom. What was going on, had she been dropped off in the French countryside by Queen Dowager Catherine? Because she was going to show her resentment by having fun in the streets of Paris on the eve of her wedding? "God," she said with a splitting headache, almost instantly, her mind crammed with too many inexplicable memories. Margaret was shocked, what were those twentieth century memories that filled her mind that were supposed to be four hundred years later? No, not four hundred years from now, but she was now in the twentieth century. July 1997 Those newly bubbling memories no longer show her as Princess Marguerite of the Valois dynasty, but as a fatherless French orphan, Marguerite Ajani, also nineteen years old. Born in an orphanage, she enters the prestigious Théâtre de France for her love of acting, takes part in stage productions, and rises to fame as a newcomer to the theater. Oh, by the way, she seems to have a very important movie audition scheduled for today-- The Story of Adele Hugo, a new movie by the famous French director François Truffaut. The great director almost died in 1984 due to a serious illness, and after that he retired for many years, but recently, this master of 20th century world cinema is ready to direct and make a movie again, which almost shook the world cinema world. Especially after this movie gained the attention of the Hollywood Big Six, it has risen even higher, and in a way, The Story of Adele Hugo has already gained an early ticket to the Oscars and Cesar Film Festival. Of course, the major European film festivals will also not be slow to treat the comeback of the master director of the world's movie world. The Story of Adele Hugo, a tragic love story based on Adele's diary, was initiated as early as 1975, but was eventually abandoned because François Truffaut was unable to find a suitable actress to play Adele Hugo. Now, however, the opportunity seemed to be in front of her, and director François Truffaut personally invited her to audition for the role. Marguerite's face did not change in the slightest as she looked at the silver mirror in front of her, with her long seafoam black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. Subconsciously she lifted up her shirt and looked at her back, which bore an S-shaped scar that had been inflicted by her father's mistress when she had been pushed down a flight of steps as a young child. It was her body, and even the memory of all the ways Margaret Ajani had behaved and conducted herself all mirrored her. Eerily enough, even four centuries apart, Margaret thought it was her. The man in the black cloak came to her mind. Her mother, it seemed, had made some sort of deal with that tall, creepy man, and she was afraid that the situation she was facing at the moment was because of that deal. Margaret exhaled slowly, when the sudden ringing of the phone interrupted her thoughts. The French princess with twentieth century memories, but from the sixteenth century, looked at the black box that kept making sounds, and the expression on her face was not considered good. Although it was not bad to get rid of a wedding that was not to her liking, still no one wanted to go through such a weird thing. But alas, the black box that kept ringing had the idea that it was never going to end. Margaret, who had never had a good temper, answered the phone, "Yes?" The man on the other end of the line sounded inexplicably apologetic and evasive, "Ajani, I'm getting married, perhaps I should call and explain this to you myself." Margaret finally remembered from the corner of her memory who the man was, British and Irish movie actor Daniel Day-Lewis. The Oscar-winning international movie star was the first boyfriend she had dated in her adult life and was twenty years her senior. Since Marguerite Adjani was already an adult at the beginning of the relationship, and since both Hollywood and the French theater world were already very used to relationships with a huge age gap, no one cursed Lewis as a pedophile. But Ajani's affair with Daniel Day-Lewis didn't end well, as the international movie star known as "The Man of a Thousand Faces" moved to the United States at the beginning of the year and quickly fell in love with Rebecca, the daughter of playwright Arthur Miller. He even faxed a break-up letter to Ajani, and even his uncle called him a "unethical thug" for abandoning his wife, while Ajani, who is now only a rookie actress, was met with mocking or sympathetic glances from the public. Ajani's only barely recognizable benefit from this relationship is that her English has gotten a lot better. Margaret, who has always been in love and has had many handsome lovers, even a man who practiced witchcraft to get her affection, blinks - she's been dumped? Margaret Ajani's voice was soft, with a sultry and mysterious tone, "You'd better not appear easily before my eyes before I send you to the guillotine." She added gently, "You know what? If someone humiliates me, I'll do everything in my power to make him die in peace."