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.