“But it is nothing,” protested the Signora, beaming with delight.  “It is so simple, so easy, and I know exactly what to do.”

“You?” cried Sabina between laughing and crying.

“Yes.  I once gave lessons in the house of a famous lawyer, and sometimes I was asked to stay to luncheon, and I heard a great case discussed, and I asked questions, until I thoroughly understood it all.  You see, it was what I always meant to do.  There is a little fiction about the way it is managed, but it is perfectly legal.  Though Italians may naturalize themselves in a foreign country, they can regain their own nationality by a simple declaration.  Now, Signor Malipieri and I must be naturalized in Switzerland.  I know a place where it can be done easily.  Then we can be divorced by mutual consent at once.  We come back to Italy, declare our nationality wherever we please, and we are free to be married to any one else, under Italian law.  The fiction is only that by paying some money, it can all be done in three months, instead of in three years.”

Malipieri had listened attentively.

“Are you positively sure of that?” he asked.

“I have the authority of one of the first lawyers in Italy.”

“But the Church?” asked Sabina anxiously.  “I should not think it a marriage at all, if I were not married in church.”

“I have asked a good priest about that,” answered the Signora.  “I go to confession to him, and he is a good man, and wise too.  He told me that the Church could make no objection at all, since there has really been no marriage at all, and since Signor Malipieri will present himself after being properly and legally married to you at the municipality.  He told me, on the contrary, that it is my duty to do everything in my power to help you.”

“God bless you!” Sabina cried.  “You are the best woman in the world!”

Malipieri took the Signora’s hand and pressed it to his lips fervently, for he could not find any words.

“I shall only ask one thing,” she said, speaking timidly again.

“Ask all I have,” he answered, her hand still in his.

“But you may not like it.  I should like to keep the name, if you do not mind very much, on account of my little girl.  She need never know.  I can leave her with a friend while we are in Switzerland.”

“It is yours,” he said.  “Few of my own people have borne it as worthily as you have, since I gave it to you.”

* * * * * *

Here, therefore, ends the story of Sabina Conti and Marino Malipieri, whose marriage took place quietly during the autumn, as the Princess had confidently said that it should.  It is a tale without a “purpose” and without any particular “moral,” in the present appalling acceptation, of those simple words.  If it has interested or pleased those who have read it, the writer is glad; if it has not, he can find some consolation in having made two young