“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.” “Exactly,” said Gaudissart. “The fathers of the Saint-Simonian faith have authorized me to send them all the commodities I--But allow me to tell you about their noble newspaper. You, who have understood the whole question of insurance so thoroughly, and who are willing to assist my work in this district--” “Yes,” said Margaritis, “if--” “If I take your wine; I understand perfectly. Your wine is very good, Monsieur; it puts the stomach in a glow.” “They make champagne out of it; there is a man from Paris who comes here and makes it in Tours.” “I have no doubt of it, Monsieur. The ‘Globe,’ of which we were speaking--” “Yes, I’ve gone over it,” said Margaritis. “I was sure of it!” exclaimed Gaudissart. “Monsieur, you have a fine frontal development; a pate--excuse the word--which our gentlemen call ‘horse-head.’ There’s a horse element in the head of every great man. Genius will make itself known; but sometimes it happens that great men, in spite of their gifts, remain obscure. Such was very nearly the case with Saint-Simon; also with Monsieur Vico,--a strong man just beginning to shoot up; I am proud of Vico. Now, here we enter upon the new theory and formula of humanity. Attention, if you please.” “Attention!” said the fool, falling into position.