She turned down a side street and disappeared, and Babette felt her
strength and mind both failing her now that she was out of danger. She
staggered weakly into a big, dim church, by the door of which the
parting happened to have taken place. Here she sank down in a heavy,
death-like swoon in front of one of the side altars, with her baby
wailing fretfully at her breast. When she came to herself again she was
seated in the sacristy, and her hair and face were wet with the water
they had flung over her. By her side stood a black-robed, kindly-faced
curé and two or three women, who were trying to force some wine down her
throat. By degrees her strength came back, and she raised herself and
asked piteously for her child. Then, when he was in her arms, she told
her story.

Wonder, horror, and bewilderment all dawned in turns on her hearers'
countenances, and it was not until she unpinned her baby's shawls and
handed the shabby pocket-book to the priest that they were quite certain
they had not to deal with some poor, wandering lunatic. But when the
money had been looked at and replaced, then, indeed, they saw the
necessity for prompt action. The curé caught up his hat, and, after
whispering a few words to the women, hurried out of the sacristy.

"He is gone to the police," said one. "Poor child"--laying her hand
caressingly on the girl's damp hair--"what hast thou not passed through!
Mercifully the mass was not over, so we found thee at once. Lie still
and rest. Give me but thy husband's name and address, and in one little
half-hour he shall be by thy side."

And so he was, and then, when she had been examined by the chief of the
police and sobbed out her story all over again, from the shelter of