12
The letter from La Rochelle sat on the table where I had thrown it earlier in the afternoon. It was not until I readied for bed that I remembered to look at it. The only thing worse than being cursed with an absent, quarrelsome husband was being cursed with a letter from that absent, quarrelsome husband. Suddenly, I longed for the moments when he seemed much further away from me. My shoulders sagged, and I allowed a long sigh to escape my lips as I opened the letter to read its contents.
The letter was not from my husband, after all. It was instead a love letter from the Duc d' Anjou. Anger burned within me as I read the letter which was filled with professions of his love for me and apologizing for his inability to stop my remarriage to Condé. He feared that I did not return his love
