“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!”