“Yes,” resumed Gaudissart,--“painter, poet, musician, statesman--and binds itself to pay them over to your family, your heirs, if, by reason of your death, the hopes foundered on your intellectual capital should be overthrown for you personally. The payment of the premium is all that is required to protect--” “The money-box,” said the lunatic, sharply interrupting him. “Ah! naturally; yes. I see that Monsieur understands business.” “Yes,” said the madman. “I established the Territorial Bank in the Rue des Fosses-Montmartre at Paris in 1798.” “For,” resumed Gaudissart, going back to his premium, “in order to meet the payments on the intellectual capital which each man recognizes and esteems in himself, it is of course necessary that each should pay a certain premium, three per cent; an annual due of three per cent. Thus, by the payment of this trifling sum, a mere nothing, you protect your family from disastrous results at your death--” “But I live,” said the fool. “Ah! yes; you mean if you should live long? That is the usual objection,--a vulgar prejudice. I fully agree that if we had not foreseen and demolished it we might feel we were unworthy of being--what? What are we, after all? Book-keepers in the great Bureau of Intellect. Monsieur, I don’t apply these remarks to you, but I meet on all sides men who make it a business to teach new ideas and disclose chains of reasoning to people who turn pale at the first word. On my word of honor, it is pitiable! But that’s the way of the world, and I don’t pretend to reform it. Your objection, Monsieur, is really sheer nonsense.” “Why?” asked the lunatic. “Why?--this is why: because, if you live and possess the qualities which are estimated in your policy against the chances of death,--now, attend to this--” “I am attending.” “Well, then, you have succeeded in life; and you have succeeded because of the said insurance. You doubled your chances of success by getting rid of the anxieties you were dragging about with you in the shape of wife and children who might otherwise be left destitute at your death. If you attain this certainty, you have touched the value of your intellectual capital, on which the cost of insurance is but a trifle,--a mere trifle, a bagatelle.” “That’s a fine idea!” “Ah! is it not, Monsieur?” cried Gaudissart. “I call this enterprise the exchequer of beneficence; a mutual insurance against poverty; or, if you like it better, the discounting, the cashing, of talent. For talent, Monsieur, is a bill of exchange which Nature gives to the man of genius, and which often has a long time to run before it falls due.” “That is usury!” cried Margaritis. “The devil! he’s keen, the old fellow! I’ve made a mistake,” thought Gaudissart, “I must catch him with other chaff. I’ll try humbug No. 1. Not at all,” he said aloud, “for you who--” “Will you take a glass of wine?” asked Margaritis. “With pleasure,” replied Gaudissart.