“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, [Illustration: MARIE DE MEDICIS FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING] 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.