Malipieri’s lips moved, but he said nothing that could be heard.  A vein that ran down the middle of his forehead was swollen, and there was a bad look in his eyes.

“I would rather see the child dead than married to one of those disgusting people,” the Princess said.  “Did you ever hear of such impertinence?”

“You let her live with them for more than two months,” observed Malipieri.

“I know I did.  It was simply impossible to think of anything better in the confusion, and as they offered to take charge of her, I consented.  Yes, it was foolish, but I did not suppose that they would let her go off in a cab with that old dotard and stay out all night.”

Malipieri felt as if she were driving a blunt nail into his head.

“Poor Sassil” he said.  “He was buried yesterday.”

“Was he?  I am not in the least sorry for him.  He always made trouble, and this was the worst of all Sabina almost cried because I would not let her go and see him at the hospital.  You know, he never spoke after he was taken there—­he did not feel anything.”

Malipieri wondered whether the Princess, in another sense, had ever felt anything, a touch of real pity, or real love, for any human being.  He did not remember to have ever met a woman who had struck him as so utterly heartless; and yet he could not forget the look that had come into her face, and the simple word she had spoken, when he had told her his story.

“I understand that you refused Volterra’s proposal,” he said, returning to the present trouble.  “Do you mean to say that he declined to help you unless you would accept it?”

“Oh, no!  He only said that as I was not disposed to accept what would make it so much easier, he would have to think it over.  I have not seen him since.”

“But you understand what he had planned, do you not?” Malipieri asked.  “It is very simple.”

“It is not so clear to me.  I am not at all clever, you know.”  The Princess laughed carelessly.  “He must have a very good reason for offering to pay a hundred thousand francs in order that his son may marry Sabina, who has not a penny.  I confess, if it were not an impertinence, it would look like a foolish caprice.  I suppose he thinks it would be socially advantageous.”

Her lip curled and showed her even white teeth.

“His wife is a snob,” Malipieri answered, “but Volterra does not care for anything but power and money, except perhaps for the sort of reputation he has, which helps him to get both.”  “Then of what possible use could it be to him to marry his son to Sabina, and to throw all that money away for the sake of getting her?”

Malipieri hesitated, not sure whether it would be wise to tell her all he thought.

“In the first place,” he said slowly, “I do not believe he would really pay the blackmail, or if he did, he would catch the man, get the money back, and have him sent to penal servitude.  He is very clever, and in his position he can have whatever help he asks from the government, especially in a just cause, as that would be.  Perhaps he thinks that he has guessed who the man is.”