art can
never, never be satisfied with what ensues.

Mariana loved first, and loved most, for she had most force and variety
to love with. Sylvain seemed, at first, to take her to himself, as the
deep southern night might some fair star. But it proved not so.

Mariana was a very intellectual being, and she needed companionship.
This she could only have with Sylvain, in the paths of passion and
action. Thoughts he had none, and little delicacy of sentiment. The
gifts she loved to prepare of such for him, he took with a sweet, but
indolent smile; he held them lightly, and soon they fell from his grasp.
He loved to have her near him, to feel the glow and fragrance of her
nature, but cared not to explore the little secret paths whence that
fragrance was collected.

Mariana knew not this for a long time. Loving so much, she imagined all
the rest, and, where she felt a blank, always hoped that further
communion would fill it up. When she found this could never be; that
there was absolutely a whole province of her being to which nothing in
his answered, she was too deeply in love to leave him. Often after
passing hours together, beneath the southern moon, when, amid the sweet
intoxication of mutual love, she still felt the desolation of solitude,
and a repression of her finer powers, she had asked herself, can I give
him up? But the heart always passionately answered, no! I may be
miserable with him, but I cannot live without him.

And the last miserable feeling of these conflicts was, that if the
lover, soon to be the bosom friend, could have dreamed of these
conflicts, he would have laughed, or else been angry, even enough to
give her up.

Ah weakness of the strong. Of these strong only where strength is
weakness. Like others she had the decisions of life to make, before she
had light by which to make them. Let none condemn her. Those who have
not erred as fatally, should thank the guardian angel who gave them more
time to prepare for judgment, but blame no children who thought at arm's
length to find the moon. Mariana, with a heart capable of highest Eros,
gave it to one who knew love only as a flower or plaything, and bound
her heartstrings to one who parted his as lightly as the ripe fruit
leaves the bough. The sequel could not fail. Many console themselves for
the one great mistake with their children, with the world. This was not
possible to Mariana. A few months of domestic life she still was almost
happy. But Sy