In spite of Biron’s faults, the heart of Henry still yearned towards him. Though he could not greet the offender with his customary warmth and frankness, he received him graciously, and led him through the palace, pointing out the improvements which had been made. At length he touched upon the delicate subject of the marshal’s deviation from the path of duty. He hinted that he had incontrovertible proof, but assured him that an honest confession would cancel every thing, and replace him on the summit of favour. Misled by his pride, and the fatal mistake that his secret was safe, Biron, instead of seizing this opportunity to extricate himself from danger, was mad enough to assume the lofty tone of conscious and wronged innocence; studiously cold in his general manner, he sometimes verged upon insolence, and he loudly declared, that he came not to justify his conduct, but to demand vengeance upon those who had slandered him, or, if need were, to take it. Twice more, in the course of the day—once in person, and once through Biron’s friend, the count of Soissons—Henry renewed his efforts, and was haughtily repulsed. On the morrow the monarch returned to the charge, and made other two attempts to save the marshal from the gulf which was opening to receive him. Oblivion for the past, friendship for the future, were earnestly offered to his acceptance. But Biron was like the deaf adder; he even broke out into a fit of passion on being pressed for the last time; and Henry was reluctantly compelled to resign him to his fate. It is probable that the king would have borne with Biron for a while longer, had not the terrors, entreaties, and tears of his consort, impelled him to decisive measures. Mary of Medicis believed, that it was a part of the policy of Spain to cut off the royal family, and she shuddered at the idea of what, in the case of a minority, might happen to herself and her offspring, from the hostility of a man who was in all ways so formidable as Biron. The king himself had already betrayed the same apprehension to Sully. After having, in melancholy terms, confessed his lingering affection for the marshal, he added, “But all my dread is, that were I to pardon him, he would never pardon me, or my children, or my kingdom.” The gates of mercy were in consequence shut upon the dangerous criminal.