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.
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