in the neighborhood of Paris, and call it Bordeaux.  But what you are drinking just now, my good Monsieur, is a wine for kings, the pure Head of Vouvray,—­that’s it’s name.  I have two puncheons, only two puncheons of it left.  People who like fine wines, high-class wines, who furnish their table with qualities that can’t be bought in the regular trade,—­and there are many persons in Paris who have that vanity,—­well, such people send direct to us for this wine.  Do you know any one who—?”

“Let us go on with what we were saying,” interposed Gaudissart.

“We are going on,” said the fool.  “My wine is capital; you are capital, capitalist, intellectual capital, capital wine,—­all the same etymology, don’t you see? hein?  Capital, ‘caput,’ head, Head of Vouvray, that’s my wine,—­it’s all one thing.”

“So that you have realized your intellectual capital through your wines?  Ah, I see!” said Gaudissart.

“I have realized,” said the lunatic.  “Would you like to buy my puncheons? you shall have them on good terms.”

“No, I was merely speaking,” said the illustrious Gaudissart, “of the results of insurance and the employment of intellectual capital.  I will resume my argument.”

The lunatic calmed down, and fell once more into position.

“I remarked, Monsieur, that if you die the capital will be paid to your family without discussion.”

“Without discussion?”

“Yes, unless there were suicide.”

“That’s quibbling.”

“No, Monsieur; you are aware that suicide is one of those acts which are easy to prove—­”

“In France,” said the fool; “but—­”

“But in other countries?” said Gaudissart.  “Well, Monsieur, to cut short discussion on this point, I will say, once for all, that death in foreign countries or on the field of battle is outside of our—­”

“Then what are you insuring?  Nothing at all!” cried Margaritis.  “My bank, my Territorial Bank, rested upon—­”

“Nothing at all?” exclaimed Gaudissart, interrupting the good-man.  “Nothing at all?  What do you call sickness, and afflictions, and poverty, and passions?  Don’t go off on exceptional points.”

“No, no! no points,” said the lunatic.

“Now, what’s the result of all this?” cried Gaudissart.  “To you, a banker, I can sum up the profits in a few words.  Listen.  A man lives; he has a future; he appears well; he lives, let us say, by his art; he wants money; he tries to get it,—­he fails.  Civilization withholds cash from this man whose thought could master civilization, and ought to master it, and will master it some day with a brush, a chisel, with words, ideas, theories, systems.  Civilization is atrocious!  It denies bread to the men who give it luxury.  It starves them on sneers and curses, the beggarly rascal!  My words may be strong, but I shall not retract them.  Well, this great but neglected man comes to us; we recognize his greatness; we salute him with respect; we listen to him.  He says to us:  ’Gentlemen, my life and talents are worth so much; on my productions I will pay you such or such percentage.’  Very good; what do we do?  Instantly, without reserve or hesitation, we admit him to the great festivals of civilization as an honored guest—­”