“You need wine for that,” interposed the madman.

“—­as an honored guest.  He signs the insurance policy; he takes our bits of paper,—­scraps, rags, miserable rags!—­which, nevertheless, have more power in the world than his unaided genius.  Then, if he wants money, every one will lend it to him on those rags.  At the Bourse, among bankers, wherever he goes, even at the usurers, he will find money because he can give security.  Well, Monsieur, is not that a great gulf to bridge over in our social system?  But that is only one aspect of our work.  We insure debtors by another scheme of policies and premiums.  We offer annuities at rates graduated according to ages, on a sliding-scale infinitely more advantageous than what are called tontines, which are based on tables of mortality that are notoriously false.  Our company deals with large masses of men; consequently the annuitants are secure from those distressing fears which sadden old age,—­too sad already!—­fears which pursue those who receive annuities from private sources.  You see, Monsieur, that we have estimated life under all its aspects.”

“Sucked it at both ends,” said the lunatic.  “Take another glass of wine.  You’ve earned it.  You must line your inside with velvet if you are going to pump at it like that every day.  Monsieur, the wine of Vouvray, if well kept, is downright velvet.”

“Now, what do you think of it all?” said Gaudissart, emptying his glass.

“It is very fine, very new, very useful; but I like the discounts I get at my Territorial Bank, Rue des Fosses-Montmartre.”

“You are quite right, Monsieur,” answered Gaudissart; “but that sort of thing is taken and retaken, made and remade, every day.  You have also hypothecating banks which lend upon landed property and redeem it on a large scale.  But that is a narrow idea compared to our system of consolidating hopes,—­consolidating hopes! coagulating, so to speak, the aspirations born in every soul, and insuring the realization of our dreams.  It needed our epoch, Monsieur, the epoch of transition —­transition and progress—­”

“Yes, progress,” muttered the lunatic, with his glass at his lips.  “I like progress.  That is what I’ve told them many times—­”

“The ’Times’!” cried Gaudissart, who did not catch the whole sentence.  “The ‘Times’ is a bad newspaper.  If you read that, I am sorry for you.”

“The newspaper!” cried Margaritis.  “Of course!  Wife! wife! where is the newspaper?” he cried, going towards the next room.

“If you are interested in newspapers,” said Gaudissart, changing his attack, “we are sure to understand each other.”

“Yes; but before we say anything about that, tell me what you think of this wine.”

“Delicious!”

“Then let us finish the bottle.”  The lunatic poured out a thimbleful for himself and filled Gaudissart’s glass.  “Well, Monsieur, I have two puncheons left of the same wine; if you find it good we can come to terms.”