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--"

"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