"They do not want money," he said; "they have too much money. They
have no poor. They are all pampered."
If that were really the case my way seemed clear. I dropped
Laploshka's two francs into the bag with a murmured blessing on the
rich of Monsieur le Cure.
Some three weeks later chance had taken me to Vienna, and I sat one
evening regaling myself in a humble but excellent little Gasthaus up
in the Wahringer quarter. The appointments were primitive, but the
Schnitzel, the beer, and the cheese could not have been improved on.
Good cheer brought good custom, and with the exception of one small
table near the door every place was occupied. Half-way through my
meal I happened to glance in the direction of that empty seat, and
saw that it was no longer empty. Poring over the bill of fare with
the absorbed scrutiny of one who seeks the cheapest among the cheap
was Laploshka. Once he looked across at me, with a comprehensive
glance at my repast, as though to say, "It is my two francs you are
eating," and then looked swiftly away. Evidently the poor of
Monsieur le Cure had been genuine poor. The Schnitzel turned to
leather in my mouth, the beer seemed tepid; I left the Emmenthaler
untasted. My one idea was to get away from the room, away from the
table where THAT was seated; and as I fled I felt Laploshka's
reproachful eyes watching the amount that I gave to the piccolo--out
of his two francs. I lunched next day at an expensive restaurant
which I felt sure that the living Laploshka would never have entered
on his own account, and I hoped that the dead Laploshka would
observe the same barriers.
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