Detricand sprang to his feet. So this was the truth about Philip d'Avranche, about Guida, alas!
He paced the tent, his brain in a whirl. Stopping at last, he took from his pocket the letter received that afternoon from General Grandjon- Larisse, and read it through again hurriedly. It proposed a truce, and a meeting with himself at a village near, for conference upon the surrender of Detricand's small army.
"A bitter end to all our fighting," said Detricand aloud at last. "But he is right. It is now a mere waste of life. I know my course. . . . Even to-night," he added, "it shall be to-night."
Two hours later Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, was closeted with General Grandjon-Larisse at a village half-way between the Republican army and the broken bands of the Vendee.
As lads Detricand and Grandjon-Larisse had known each other well. But since the war began Grandjon-Larisse had gone one way, and he had gone the other, bitter enemies in principle but friendly enough at heart.
They had not seen each other since the year before Rullecour's invasion of Jersey.
"I had hoped to see you by sunset, monseigneur," said Grandjon-Larisse after they had exchanged greetings.
"It is through a melancholy chance you see me at all," replied Detricand heavily.
"To what piteous accident am I indebted?" Grandjon-Larisse replied in an acid tone, for war had given his temper an edge. "Were not my reasons for surrender sound? I eschewed eloquence—I gave you facts."
Detricand shook his head, but did not reply at once. His brow was clouded.