Without more ado, Grandjon-Larisse laid a map on the table. “This will help us,” he said briefly, then added: “Look you, Prince, when war began the game was all with you. At Thouars here”—his words followed his finger—“at Fontenay, at Saumur, at Torfou, at Coron, at Chateau-Gonthier, at Pontorson, at Dol, at Antrain, you had us by the heels. Victory was ours once to your thrice. Your blood was up. You had great men—great men,” he repeated politely.
Detricand bowed. “But see how all is changed,” continued the other. “See: by this forest of Vesins de la Rochejaquelein fell. At Chollet”—his finger touched another point—“Bonchamp died, and here d’Elbee and Lescure were mortally wounded. At Angers Stofflet was sent to his account, and Charette paid the price at Nantes.” He held up his fingers. “One—two—three—four—five—six great men gone!”
He paused, took a step away from the table, and came back again.
Once more he dropped his finger on the map. “Tinteniac is gone, and at Quiberon Peninsula your friend Sombreuil was slain. And look you here,” he added in a lower voice, “at Laval my old friend the Prince of Talmont was executed at his own chateau, where I had spent many an hour with him.”
Detricand’s eyes flashed fire. “Why then permit the murder, monsieur le general?”
Grandjon-Larisse started, his voice became hard at once. “It is not a question of Talmont, or of you, or of me, monseigneur. It is not a question of friendship, not even of father, or brother, or son—but of France.”
“And of God and the King,” said Detricand quickly.
Grandjon-Larisse shrugged his shoulders. “We see with different eyes. We think with different minds,” and he stooped over the map again.
“We feel with different hearts,” said Detricand. “There is the difference between us—between your cause and mine. You are all for logic and perfection in government, and to get it you go mad, and France is made a shambles—”
“War is cruelty, and none can make it gentle,” interrupted Grandjon-Larisse. He turned to the map once more. “And see, monseigneur, here at La Vie your uncle the Prince of Vaufontaine died, leaving you his name and a burden of hopeless war. Now count them all over—de la Rochejaquelein, Bonchamp, d’Elbee, Lescure, Stofflet, Charette, Talmont, Tinteniac, Sombreuil, Vaufontaine—they are all gone, your great men. And who of chieftains and armies are left? Detricand of Vaufontaine and a few brave men—no more. Believe me, monseigneur, your game is hopeless—by your grace, one moment still,” he added, as Detricand made an impatient gesture. “Hoche destroyed your army and subdued the country two years ago. You broke out again, and Hoche and I have beaten you again. Fight on, with your doomed followers—brave men I admit—and Hoche will have no mercy. I can save your peasants if you will yield now.