I waited a moment, hoping that he would move. But he did not, nor, indeed, could he; and suddenly my disgust overcame my prudence. With a quick movement I drew back. At the same moment I felt the coldness of the razor as it cut into my cheek.
Immediately, from whence I know not, there descended upon me a fury of hatred against Antonio. He had at once drawn back the razor and was looking at me in astonishment. I leapt to my feet, raising my hand to my cheek from which blood was already spurting, and shouted: 'What on earth are you doing? Are you mad?'
'But, Signor Baldeschi,' he said, 'you moved. . you moved violently.'
'That's not true,' I yelled.
'Signor Baldeschi,' he insisted almost beseechingly, with the respectful, as it were heartbroken, moderation of a social inferior who knows he is in the right, 'how could I possibly have cut you if you hadn't moved?'
'Believe me, you did move. . but it's nothing much — just wait a moment.' He went to the table, uncorked a little bottle, took a piece of cotton-wool from a packet and soaked it in the spirit.
Beside myself with rage, I shouted: 'What d'you mean, it's nothing much?. . it's a very bad cut'; and, snatching the cotton-wool out of his hand, I went over to the mirror. The burning sensation of the spirit gave the final touch to my exasperation. 'So it's nothing much, eh?' I shouted, throwing away the blood-stained cotton-wool in a fresh access of fury. 'You don't know what you're talking about, Antonio. . and look here — you'd better clear out.'
'But, Signor Baldeschi… I haven't finished shaving you. .'
'That doesn't matter. . Clear out and don't show yourself here again,' I cried. 'I don't want to see you here again — d'you understand?'
'But, Signor Baldeschi. .'