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—  —

countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter

of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I

did not differ from him materially: I was skil-

ful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought

largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during

the supreme madness of the carnival season,

that I encountered my friend. He accosted

me with excessive warmth, for he had been

drinking much. The man wore motley. He

had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress,

and his head was surmounted by the coni-

cal cap and bells. I was so pleased to see

him, that I thought I should never have

done wringing his hand.

I said to him—“My dear Fortunato, you

are luckily met. How remarkably well you are

looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of

what passes for Amontillado, and I have my

doubts.”

“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Im-

possible! And in the middle of the carnival!”

“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was

silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price

without consulting you in the matter. You

were not to be found, and I was fearful of los-

ing a bargain.”

“Amontillado!”

“I have my doubts.”

“Amontillado!”

“And I must satisfy them.”

“Amontillado!”

The thousand injuries

of Fortunato I had borne

as I best could; but when

he ventured upon insult, I

vowed revenge. You, who

so well know the nature of

my soul, will not suppose,

however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At

length I would be avenged; this was a point

definitively settled—but the very definitive-

ness with which it was resolved, precluded the

idea of risk. I must not only punish, but pun-

ish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed

when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is

equally unredressed when the avenger fails

to make himself felt as such to him who has

done the wrong.

It must be understood, that neither by

word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to

doubt my good will. I continued, as was my

wont, to smile in his face, and he did not per-

ceive that my smile now was at the thought of

his immolation.

He had a weak point—this Fortunato—

although in other regards he was a man to be

respected and even feared. He prided himself

on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians

have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most

part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the

time and opportunity—to practise imposture

upon the British and Austrian millionaires.

In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his

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countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skil- ful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the coni- cal cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him—“My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.” “How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Im- possible! And in the middle of the carnival!” “I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of los- ing a bargain.” “Amontillado!” “I have my doubts.” “Amontillado!” “And I must satisfy them.” “Amontillado!” The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled—but the very definitive- ness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but pun- ish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not per- ceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point—this Fortunato— although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his

“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me—” “Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.” “And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.” “Come, let us go.” “Whither?” “To your vaults.” “My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an en- gagement. Luchesi—” “I have no engagement;—come.” “My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.” “Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is mere- ly nothing. Amontillado! You have been im- posed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.” Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed him- self of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them ex- plicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the arch- way that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. “The pipe,” said he. “It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cav- ern walls.” He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. “Nitre?” he asked, at length. “Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?” “Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” My poor friend found it impossible to re- ply for many minutes. “It is nothing,” he said, at last. “Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, re- spected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—” “Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere noth- ing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displac- ing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. “Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontil- lado. As for Luchesi—” “He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to re- sist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. “Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little atten- tions in my power.” “The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. “True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.” As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have be- fore spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon un- covered a quantity of building stone and mor- tar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of my ma- sonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the

sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trem- bled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess: but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt sat- isfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there re- mained but a single stone to be fitted and plas- tered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was suc- ceeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said— “Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!” “The Amontillado!” I said. “He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amon- tillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortu- nato and the rest? Let us be gone.” “Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.” “For the love of God, Montressor!” “Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!” But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud— “Fortunato!” No answer. I called again— “Fortunato!” No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick—on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

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