But Henri's serious expression seemed impenetrable. "Excuse me, Sire," she said, mustering all her courage. "May I venture to ask your Majesty why, after your long silence as to him who saved me from disgrace at Calais, you have done me the honor to pay me this visit to-day, and at this hour, expressly, I should judge, to interrogate me about him?" "Do you wish to know, Diane?" asked the king. "Sire, I am so bold," she replied. "Very well, then, you shall know all," said Henri; "and I pray that my confidence may invite and induce yours. You have often told me that you loved me, my child." "I have said it, and I say it again, Sire," cried Diane: "I love you as my sovereign, my benefactor, and my father." "Therefore I may reveal everything to my loyal and loving daughter," said the king; "so listen, Diane." "I listen with all my soul, Sire." Henri then described his two encounters with Gabriel,--the first in the gallery of the Louvre, and the other in the forest of Fontainebleau. He told Diane of the strange demeanor, as of mute rebellion, which the young man had adopted, and how on the first occasion he had declined to raise his hand to salute his king, and the second time had declined to raise his hand to save his life. Diane at this recital could not conceal her grief and her alarm. The conflict which she so dreaded between Gabriel and the king had already manifested itself on two occasions, and might soon appear again in a still more dangerous and terrible form. Henri, affecting not to notice his daughter's emotion, ended with these words:-- "These are serious offences, are they not, Diane? They almost amount to _lèse-majesté_! And yet I have concealed these insults from everybody, and dissembled my indignation, because this young man has really suffered at my hands in the past, notwithstanding the glorious service he has rendered my kingdom, which ought doubtless to have been rewarded much more generously." Fixing a piercing glance upon Diane, the king continued,-- "I do not know, Diane, nor do I wish to know, whether you have been made acquainted with the wrong I have done Monsieur d'Exmès; I only wish you to feel that my silence has been due to my appreciation of that wrong and my regret for it. But is it not imprudent for me to maintain silence? Do not these outrages give warning of others more flagrant still? Ought I not to have an eye to Monsieur d'Exmès? Upon these points I have come, Diane, to ask for your friendly advice." "I am grateful for your confidence in me, Sire," replied Diane, sorrowfully, being thus forced to choose between the duty which she owed respectively to the two men who were dearest to her on earth. "It is a very natural confidence, Diane," the king returned. "Well?" he added, observing that his daughter seemed to be at a loss.