THE scene is again at Fontainebleau. Henry’s brow is knit. He is gloomy and sad. With slow steps he quits the palace by the Golden Gate, passes through the parterre garden under the shadow of the lime berceau which borders the long faÇade of the palace, and reaches a pavilion under a grove of trees overlooking the park and the canal. This pavilion is the house he has built for Sully. The statesman is seated writing in an upper chamber overlooking the avenues leading to the forest.

The King enters unannounced; he throws his arms round Sully, then sinks into a chair. Sully looks at him unmoved. He is accustomed to outbreaks of passion and remorse caused by the King’s love affairs, and he mentally ascribes his master’s present trouble to this cause. “Sully,” says Henry, speaking at last, “I am betrayed, betrayed by my dearest friend. Ventre de ma vie! MarÉchal Biron has conspired against me, with Spain.”

“How, Sire?” cries Sully, bounding from his chair; “have you proofs?”

“Ay, Sully, only too complete; his agent and secretary Lafin has confessed everything. Lafin is now at Fontainebleau. I have long doubted the good faith of Biron, but I must now bring myself to hold him as a traitor.”

“If your Majesty has sufficient proofs,” said Sully, re-seating himself, “have him at once arrested. Allow him no time to communicate with your enemies.”

“No, Sully, no; I cannot do that: I must give my old friend a chance. Of his treason, there is, however, no question. He has intrigued for years with the Duke of Savoy and with Spain, giving out as his excuse that the Catholic faith is endangered by my heresy, and that I am a Calvinist. He has entered into a treasonable alliance with Bouillon and D’Auvergne; and worse, oh, far worse than all, during the campaign in Switzerland he commanded the battery of St. Catherine’s Fort to be pointed against me.—God knows how I was saved.”

“Monstrous!” cries Sully, casting up his hands. “And your Majesty dallies with such a miscreant?”

“Yes, I can make excuses for him. He has been irritated against me by the base insinuations of the Duke of Savoy. Biron is vain, hot-tempered, and credulous. I know every detail. He shall come here to Fontainebleau: I have summoned him. The sight of his old master will melt his heart. He will confide in me; he will confess, and I shall pardon him.”

“I trust it may be as your Majesty wishes,” answers Sully; “but you are playing a dangerous game, Sire. God help you safe out of it.”

Biron, ignorant of the treachery of Lafin, arrives at Fontainebleau. He reckons on the King’s ignorance and their old friendship, and trusts to a confident bearing and a bold denial of all charges. They meet—the MarÉchal and the King—in the great parterre, where, it being the month of June, sweetly scented herbs and gay flowers fill the diamonded beds—under the lime berceau surrounding the garden. Biron, perfectly composed, makes three low obeisances to the King, then kisses his hand. Henry salutes him. His eyes are moist as he looks at him. “You have done well to confide in me,” he says; “I am very glad to see you, Biron,” and he passes his arm round the MarÉchal’s neck, and draws him off to describe to him the many architectural plans he has formed for the embellishment of the chÂteau, and to show him the great “gallery of Diana” which is in course of decoration. He hopes that Biron will understand his feelings, and that kindness will tempt him to confess his crime. Biron, however, is convinced that if he braves the matter out, he will escape; he ascribes Henry’s clemency to an infatuated attachment to himself. He wears an unruffled brow, is cautious and plausible though somewhat silent, carefully avoids all topics which might lead to discussion of any matters touching his conduct, and pointedly disregards the hints thrown out from time to time by the King. Henry is miserable; he feels he must arrest the MarÉchal. Sully urges him to lose no time. Still his generous heart longs to save his old friend and companion in arms.

Towards evening the Court is assembled in the great saloon. The King is playing a game of primero. Biron enters. He invites him to join; Biron accepts, and takes up the cards with apparent unconcern. The King watches him; is silent and absent, and makes many mistakes in the game. The clock strikes eleven, Henry rises, and taking Biron by the arm, leads him into a small retiring-room or cabinet at the bottom of the throne-room, now forming part of that large apartment. The King closes the door carefully. His countenance is darkened by excitement and anxiety. His manner is so constrained and unnatural that Biron begins to question himself as to his safety; still he sees no other resource but to brave his treason out. “My old companion,” says the King, in an unsteady voice, standing in the centre of the room, “you and I are countrymen; we have known each other from boyhood. We were playfellows. I was then the poor Prince de BÉarn, and you, Biron, a cadet of Gontaut. Our fortunes have changed since then. I am a great king, and you are a Duke and MarÉchal of France.” Biron bows; his confident bearing does not fail him.

“Now, Biron,” and Henry’s good-natured face grows stern—“I have called you here to say, that if you do not instantly confess the truth (and all the truth, instantly, mind), you will repent it bitterly. I was in hopes you would have done so voluntarily, but you have not.—Now I can wait no longer.”

“Sire, I have not failed in my duty,” replies Biron haughtily; “I have nothing to confess; you do me injustice.”

“Alas, my old friend, this denial does not avail you. I know all!”—and Henry sighs and fixes his eyes steadfastly upon him. “I conjure you to make a voluntary confession. Spare me the pain of your public trial. I have kept the matter purposely secret. I will not disgrace you, if possible.”

“Sire,” answers Biron, with a well-simulated air of offended dignity. “I have already said I have nothing to confess. I can only beseech your Majesty to confront me with my accusers.”

“That cannot be done without public disgrace—without danger to your life, MarÉchal. Come, Biron,” he adds, in a softer tone, and turning his eyes upon him where he stands before him, dogged and obstinate; “come, my old friend, believe me, every detail is known to me; your life is in my hand.”

“Sire, you will never have any other answer from me. Where are my accusers?”

“Avow all, Biron, fearlessly,” continues Henry, in the same tone, as if not hearing him. “Open your heart to me;—I can make allowances for you, perchance many allowances. You have been told lies, you have been sorely tempted. Open your heart,—I will screen you.”

“Sire, my heart is true. Remember it was I who first proclaimed you king, when you had not a dozen followers at Saint-Cloud,” Biron speaks with firmness, but avoids the piercing glance of the King; “I shall be happy to answer any questions, but I have nothing to confess.”

“Ventre Saint Gris!” cries Henry, reddening, “are you mad? Confess at once—make haste about it. If you do not, I swear by the crown I wear to convict you publicly as a felon and a traitor. But I would save you, MarÉchal,” adds Henry in an altered voice, laying his hand upon his arm, “God knows I would save you, if you will let me. Pardieu! I will forgive you all!” he exclaims, in an outburst of generous feeling.

“Sire, I can only reply—confront me with my accusers. I am your Majesty’s oldest friend. I have no desire but the service of your Majesty.”

“Would to God it were so!” exclaims the King, turning upon Biron a look of inexpressible compassion. Then moving towards the door he opens it, and looks back at Biron, who still stands where he has left him, with his arms crossed, in the centre of the room. “Adieu, Baron de Biron!”—and the King emphasises the word “Baron,” his original title before he had received titles and honours—“adieu! I would have saved you had you let me—your blood be on your own head.” The door closed—Henry was gone.

Biron gave a deep sigh of relief, passed his hand over his brow, which was moist with perspiration, and prepared to follow.

As he was passing the threshold, Vitry, the Captain of the Guard, seized him by the shoulder, and wrenched his sword from its scabbard. “I arrest you, Duc de Biron!”

Biron staggered, and looked up with astonishment. “This must be some jest, Vitry!”

“No jest, monseigneur. In the King’s name, you are my prisoner.”

“As a peer of France, I claim my right to speak with his Majesty!” cried Biron, loudly. “Lead me to the King!”

“No, Duke; the King is gone—his Majesty refuses to see you again.”

Once in the hands of justice, Biron vainly solicited the pardon which Henry would gladly have granted. He was arraigned before the parliament, convicted of treason, and beheaded at the Bastille privately, the only favour he could obtain from the master he had betrayed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The pleasant days are now long past when Henry wandered, disguised as a Spaniard or a peasant, together with Bellegarde and Chicot, in search of adventures—when he braved the enemy to meet Gabrielle, and escaped the ambuscades of the League by a miracle. He lives principally at the Louvre, and is always surrounded by a brilliant Court. He has grown clumsy and round-shouldered, and shows much of the Gascon swagger in his gait. He is coarse-featured and red-faced; his hair is white; his nose seems longer—in a word, he is uglier than ever. His manners are rougher, and he is still more free of tongue. There is a senile leer in his eyes, peering from under the tuft of feathers that rests on the brim of his felt hat, as cane in hand, he passes from group to group of deeply curtseying beauties in the galleries of the Louvre. He has neither the chivalric bearing of Francis I., nor the refined elegance of the Valois Princes. Beginning with his first wife, “la reine Margot,” the most fascinating, witty, and depraved princess of her day, his experience of the sex has been various. The only woman who really loved him was poor Gabrielle, and to her alone he had been tolerably constant. Her influence over him was gentle and humane, and, although she sought to legalise their attachment by marriage, she was singularly free from pride or personal ambition.

Now she is dead. He has wedded a new wife, Marie de’ Medici, whose ample charms and imperious ways are little to his taste. “We have married you,

Sire,” said Sully to him, entering his room one day, bearing the marriage contract in his hand, “you have only to affix your signature.” “Well, well,” Henry had replied, “so be it. If the good of France demands it, I will marry.” Nevertheless, he had bitten his nails furiously and stamped up and down the room for some hours, like a man possessed. Ever reckless of consequences, he consoles himself by plunging deeper than ever into a series of intrigues which compromise his dignity and create endless difficulties and dangers.

What complicated matters was his readiness to promise marriage. He would have had more wives than our Henry VIII. could he have made good all his engagements. Gabrielle would have been his queen in a few weeks had not the subtle poison of Zametti, the Italian usurer, cleared her from the path of the Florentine bride. Even in the short interval between her death and the landing of Marie de’ Medici at Marseilles, he had yielded to the wiles of Henriette de Balsac d’Entragues, half-sister to the Comte d’Auvergne, son of Charles IX., and had given her a formal promise of marriage.

Henriette cared only for the sovereign, not for the man, who was old enough to be her father. In the glory of youth and insolence of beauty, stealthy, clever, and remorseless, a finished coquette and a reckless intrigante, she allured him into signing a formal contract of marriage, affianced though he was to a powerful princess proposed by the reigning Pontiff, whose good-will it was important to the King, always a cold Catholic, to secure.

The new favourite claimed to be of royal blood through her mother, Marie Touchet, and, therefore, a fitting consort for the King. She showed her “marriage lines” to every one—did not hesitate to assert that she, not Marie de’ Medici, was the lawful wife; that the King would shortly acknowledge her as such, and send the Queen back whence she came, together with the hated Concini, her chamber-women and secretary, along with all the jesters and mountebanks who had come with her from Italy. Endless complications ensued with the new Queen. Quarrels, recriminations, and reproaches ran so high that Marie on one occasion struck the King in the face. Henry was disgusted with her ill-temper, but was too generous either to coerce or to control her. Her Italian confidants, Concini and his wife, however, made capital of these dissensions to incense Marie violently against her husband, and at the same time to gain influence over herself. Henry was watched,—no very difficult undertaking, as he had assigned a magnificent suite of rooms in the Louvre to his new mistress, between whose apartments and those of the wife there was but a single corridor.

Henrietta meanwhile lived with all the pomp of a sovereign; there were feasts at Zametti’s, balls, and jousts, and hunting-parties at Saint-Germain and Fontainebleau. Foreign ambassadors and ministers scoured the country after the King; so engaged was he in pleasure and junketing.