“Ah! I cannot,” replied the man, smiling and placing one of his paws—which were worthy of long-handed Artaxerxes—upon his breast. “No, I cannot.”
He then raised his hand to his forehead, then to his shoulder, making several strange gestures.
“Do you believe he is a Fleemason?” said María to the Swiss in a whisper.
“Yes; assuredly.”
“All right, Diagasio, that will do,” said Quentin.
“Ha ... ha ...!” laughed the actress. “That poor man really has a peculiar look.”
The hardware merchant bowed, a smile appeared within his black beard, like a ray of sunlight in a thicket, and moving his huge hands lazily, he thoughtfully retired, not without having knocked a bottle off a table and stepping on a dog.
“Poor fellow,” said Quentin, “he has become unbalanced with all this Masonry.”
“What did you call him?” asked the Swiss.
“Diagasio. His real name is Diego, but Diagasio seems more euphonious to me. In the Lodge we have baptized him Marat.”