"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 Idon'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.
"Wife, give us a bottle of the wine that is in the puncheons. You are here at the very head of Vouvray," he continued, with a gesture of the hand, "the vineyard of Margaritis."The maid-servant brought glasses and a bottle of wine of the vintage of 1819. The good-man filled a glass with circumspection and offered it to Gaudissart, who drank it up.
"Ah, you are joking, Monsieur!" exclaimed the commercial traveller.
"Surely this is Madeira, true Madeira?"
"So you think," said the fool. "The trouble with our Vouvray wine is that it is neither a common wine, nor a wine that can be drunk with the entremets. It is too generous, too strong. It is often sold in Paris adulterated with brandy and called Madeira. The wine-merchants buy it up, when our vintage has not been good enough for the Dutch and Belgian markets, to mix it with wines grown 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. Iwill 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.
