I had withdrawn
Laploshka's two francs from the poor, who should never have had the
legacy. As I backed away from the crowd I heard a woman's voice
say, "I don't believe he put my money in the bag. There are swarms
of people in Paris like that!" But my mind was lighter that it had
been for a long time.
The delicate mission of bestowing the retrieved sum on the deserving
rich still confronted me. Again I trusted to the inspiration of
accident, and again fortune favoured me. A shower drove me, two
days later, into one of the historic churches on the left bank of
the Seine, and there I found, peering at the old wood-carvings, the
Baron R., one of the wealthiest and most shabbily dressed men in
Paris. It was now or never. Putting a strong American inflection
into the French which I usually talked with an unmistakable British
accent, I catechised the Baron as to the date of the church's
building, its dimensions, and other details which an American
tourist would be certain to want to know. Having acquired such
information as the Baron was able to impart on short notice, I
solemnly placed the two-franc piece in his hand, with the hearty
assurance that it was "pour vous," and turned to go. The Baron was
slightly taken aback, but accepted the situation with a good grace.
Walking over to a small box fixed in the wall, he dropped
Laploshka's two francs into the slot. Over the box was the
inscription, "Pour les pauvres de M. le Cure."
That evening, at the crowded corner by the Cafe de la Paix, I caught
a fleeting glimpse of Laploshka.
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