The Count of Tende was surprised by this letter; it gave him a sort of presentiment, no, not at all about what he should find there, but of something connected to what he'd thought about the previous day.

He climbed alone into his coach, full of misgiving and not daring even to open the letter, however impatient he was to read it; he read it at last and learned of his misfortune; but what did he not think after having read it! If he had had witnesses, the violent state he was in would have made them believe he was deprived of reason or ready to lose his life. Well founded jealousy and suspicions usually prepare husbands for their woes; they always have some doubts, but they don't have the certitude confession brings; that is beyond our understanding.

The Count of Tende had always found his wife very amiable, although he hadn't equally loved her; but she had always appeared to him the most estimable woman that he had ever seen; thus, he had no less astonishment than fury and, crossing from one to the other, he still felt, in spite of himself, an anguish in which tenderness was a part.

He stopped at a house, that was on his route; there he passed several days, agitated and afflicted, as one can imagine. At first, he thought all it was natural to think on such an occasion; he dreamed only of making his wife die, but the death of the Prince of Navarre and of La Lande, who he easily recognized as the confidant, made his fury relent a little.

He didn't doubt his wife had told him the truth, that her affair had never been suspected; he judged that the Prince of Navarre's marriage could have fooled everybody, since he himself had been fooled. Even in the face of a conviction as big as that which was presented to his eyes.