[adapted]

by
Edgar Allan Poe

I had suffered many wrongs from Fortunato, and I had endured them as best I could. But when he insulted me, I swore I would take revenge.

You, who know me well, will understand that I did not threaten him. No, my revenge would come in time, and I had planned it carefully. I would make sure I was avenged, and I would do it without being caught. Revenge is meaningless if the person taking it suffers as well. It is also meaningless if the one who has done wrong does not realize who has punished him.

Fortunato never suspected me. I never said or did anything to make him doubt my friendship. I continued to smile at him as I always had—only now, my smile came from the thought of his destruction.

Fortunato had one weakness. Although he was a man respected by many and even feared by some, he was overly proud of his knowledge of wine. Few Italians truly love fine wine for its own sake. Most only pretend to be experts to impress wealthy foreigners. Fortunato, like others, pretended to know about art and jewelry, but when it came to wine, he was sincere. In this, we were alike. I also knew a great deal about Italian wines and bought them whenever I could.

It was dusk, one evening during the wild celebrations of carnival, when I met Fortunato in the street. He greeted me with great excitement, for he had already been drinking. He was dressed in a colorful costume, wearing a tight-fitting, striped outfit with a cone-shaped hat decorated with bells. I was so delighted to see him that I shook his hand over and over again, as if I would never let go.

I said to him, “My dear Fortunato, what luck to meet you! You are looking very well today! But listen—I have received a barrel of what is supposed to be Amontillado, but I have my doubts.”

“What?” he said. “Amontillado? A whole barrel? Impossible! And during the carnival?”

“I have my doubts,” I repeated. “And I was foolish enough to pay full price for it without asking you first. I couldn’t find you, and I was afraid of missing a good deal.”

“Amontillado!”

“I have my doubts.”

“Amontillado!”

“And I need to be sure.”

“Amontillado!”

“But since you are busy, I am going to Luchesi. If anyone can tell if it is real, it is him.”

“Luchesi couldn’t tell Amontillado from regular Sherry.”

“And yet, some people say his taste is as good as yours.”

“Come, let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To your wine cellar.”

“My friend, no. I don’t want to take up your time. I see that you have other plans. Luchesi—”

“I have no plans. Come with me.”

“My friend, no. It is not about my plans, but about your bad cold. I can see that you are unwell. The wine cellar is terribly damp. The walls are covered with mold.”

“Let’s go anyway. The cold is nothing,” Fortunato insisted. “Amontillado! You have been fooled. And as for Luchesi, he cannot even tell the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.”

As he spoke, Fortunato grabbed my arm. I put on a black silk mask and pulled my cloak tightly around me. I allowed him to rush me toward my house.

No servants were home. They had all left to enjoy the carnival celebrations. I had told them I would not be back until morning and had strictly ordered them not to leave the house. But I knew very well that as soon as I left, they would all disappear to join the festivities.

I took two torches from their holders. I gave one to Fortunato and led him through several rooms until we reached the archway that led down to the cellars. We walked down a long, twisting staircase. I warned him to be careful as he followed me. Finally, we reached the bottom and stood together on the damp ground of the Montresor family catacombs. Fortunato was unsteady on his feet, and the bells on his hat jingled as he walked.

“The barrel,” he said.

“It is farther ahead,” I replied. “But look at the white web covering the walls of these tunnels.”

Fortunato turned toward me and looked into my eyes. His vision was cloudy, and his eyes were watery from too much drinking.

“Nitre?” he asked after a pause.

“Nitre,” I confirmed. “How long have you had that cough?”

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!”

He coughed so much that he could not answer for several minutes.

“It’s nothing,” he finally said.

“Come,” I said firmly. “Let’s go back. Your health is important. You are rich, respected, admired, and loved. You are happy—just as I once was. You are someone people would miss if anything happened to you. But for me, it doesn’t matter. We should go back. You will get sick, and I can’t be responsible. Besides, there is always Luchesi—”

“Enough,” he interrupted. “This cough is nothing. It won’t kill me. I will not die from a cough.”

“True—true,” I agreed. “I had no intention of frightening you. But you should be careful. Here, drink some of this Médoc—it will protect us from the damp air.”

I took a bottle from a row of many that were lying against the damp walls. I broke off the neck of the bottle.

“Drink,” I said, handing him the wine.

Fortunato raised the bottle to his lips with a sly grin. He paused for a moment, nodded at me as if we were old friends, and the bells on his hat jingled.

“I drink,” he said, “to the dead who rest around us.”

“And I,” I replied, “to your long life.”

He took my arm again, and we continued walking.

“These cellars,” he said, “are very large.”

“The Montresors,” I answered, “were once a great and powerful family.”

“I forget your family crest,” he said.

“It is a large golden foot in a blue field,” I explained. “The foot is crushing a snake, and the snake’s fangs are biting into the heel.”

“And the motto?”

“Nemo me impune lacessit.”

“Good!” he said.

The wine made his eyes sparkle, and the bells on his hat jingled as he walked. I, too, felt warmed by the Médoc. We passed through narrow tunnels lined with walls of bones, mixed with old barrels of wine. We were now deep in the catacombs, in the most hidden part of the vaults. I stopped again. This time, I boldly grabbed Fortunato by the arm, just above the elbow.

“The nitre!” I said. “Look, it is getting thicker. It hangs from the ceiling like moss. We are now deep under the river. Water drips from the walls and among the bones. Come, let’s go back before it’s too late. Your cough—”

“It’s nothing,” Fortunato insisted. “Let’s keep going. But first, another drink of Médoc.”

I broke open a bottle of De Grâve and handed it to him. He drank it all in one breath. His eyes lit up wildly, and he laughed. Then, suddenly, he threw the empty bottle into the air with a strange gesture.

I looked at him, confused.