There was nothing, or at least he could think of nothing, that could help her.  To try and free himself from the bond he had put upon himself would be to break a solemn promise given to a dying man whom he had dearly loved.  The woman he had seen that once, to marry her and leave her, had been worthy of the sacrifice, too, as far as lay in her.  He had given her a small income, enough for her and her little girl to live on comfortably.  She had not only kept within it, but had learned to support herself, little by little, till she had refused to take the money that was sent to her.  At regular times, she wrote to him, as to a benefactor, touching and truthful letters, with news of the growing child.  He knew that it was all without affectation of any sort, and that she had turned out a thoroughly good and honest woman.  The little girl knew that her father was dead, and that her own name was really and legally Malipieri, beyond a doubt.  Her mother kept the copy of her certificate of birth together with the certificate of marriage.  The Signora Malipieri lived as a widow in Florence and gave lessons in music and Italian.  She had never asked but one thing of Malipieri, which was that he would never try to see her, nor let her daughter know that he was alive.  It was easy to promise that.  He knew that she had been most faithful to her lover’s memory, cherishing the conviction that in the justice of heaven he was her true husband, as he would have been indeed had he lived but a few months longer.  She was bringing up her child to be like herself, save for her one fault.  Malipieri had settled a sufficient dowry on the girl, lest anything should happen to him before she was old enough to marry.

The mere suggestion of divorcing a woman who had acted as she had done since his friend’s death, was horrible to him.  It was like receiving a blow in the face, it was mud upon his honour, it was an insult to his conscience, it was far worse than merely taking back a gift once given in a generous impulse.  If he had felt himself capable of such baseness he could never again have looked honest men fairly in the eyes.  It would mean that he must turn upon her, to insult her by accusing her of something she had never done; he knew nothing of the divorce laws in foreign countries, except that Italians could obtain divorce by a short residence and could then come back and marry again under Italian law.  That was all he knew.  The Princess had not asked of him a legal impossibility, but he had felt, when she spoke, that it would be easier to explain the dogma of papal infallibility to a Chinese pirate than to make her understand how he felt towards the good woman who had a right to live under his name and had borne it so honourably for many years.

Sabina would understand.  He wished now, with all his heart, that in the hours they had spent together he had told her the secret which he had been obliged to confide to her mother.  He wondered whether she knew it, and hoped that she did.  She would at least understand his silence now, she would know why he was not at the Embassy that morning as soon as he could be received by her mother.  She might not forgive him, because she knew that he loved her, but she would see why he could not divorce in order to marry her.