She was much less happy than she told her mother; for the first enthusiasm and first illusions of marriage could not long deceive a spirit so quick and acute as hers.

A young girl who marries is easily deceived by the show of an affection of which she is the object.  It is rare that she does not adore her husband and believe she is adored by him, simply because he has married her.

The young heart opens spontaneously and diffuses its delicate perfume of love and its songs of tenderness; and enveloped in this heavenly cloud all seems love around it.  But, little by little, it frees itself; and, too often, recognizes that this delicious harmony and intoxicating atmosphere which charmed it came only from itself.

Thus was it with the Countess; so far as the pen can render the shadows of a feminine soul.  Such were the impressions which, day by day, penetrated the very soul of our poor “Miss Mary.”

It was nothing more than this; but this was everything to her!

The idea of being betrayed by her husband—­and that, too, with cruel premeditation—­never had arisen to torture her soul.  But, beyond those delicate attentions to her which she never exaggerated in her letters to her mother, she felt herself disdained and slighted.  Marriage had not changed Camors’s habits:  he dined at home, instead of at his club, that was all.  She believed herself loved, however, but with a lightness that was almost offensive.  Yet, though she was sometimes sad and nearly in tears, she did not despair; this valiant little heart attached itself with intrepid confidence to all the happy chances the future might have in store for it.

M. de Camors continued very indifferent—­as one may readily comprehend—­to the agitation which tormented this young heart, but which never occurred to him for a moment.  For himself, strange as it may appear, he was happy enough.  This marriage had been a painful step to take; but, once confirmed in his sin, he became reconciled to it.  But his conscience, seared as it was, had some living fibres in it; and he would not have failed in the duty he thought he owed to his wife.  These sentiments were composed of a sort of indifference, blended with pity.  He was vaguely sorry for this child, whose existence was absorbed and destroyed between those of two beings of nature superior to her own; and he hoped she would always remain ignorant of the fate to which she was condemned.  He resolved never to neglect anything that might extenuate its rigor; but he belonged, nevertheless, more than ever solely to the passion which was the supreme crime of his life.  For his intrigue with Madame de Campvallon, continually excited by mystery and danger—­and conducted with profound address by a woman whose cunning was equal to her beauty—­continued as strong, after years of enjoyment, as at first.

The gracious courtesy of M. de Camors, on which he piqued himself, as regarded his wife, had its limits; as the young Countess perceived whenever she attempted to abuse it.  Thus, on several occasions she declined receiving guests on the ground of indisposition, hoping her husband would not abandon her to her solitude.  She was in error.