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The Cask of a Montiado by Edgar Allan Poe.

The thousand injuries of fortune ought to hide born as best I could, but when he ventured upon insults, I vowed revenge.

You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I give utterance to a threat.

At length, I would be avenged. This was a point definitively settled, but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk.

I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.

A wrong is unredressant when retribution overtakes its redressor.

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 for it not to cause a doubt my good will.

I continued as was my want to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was of the thought of his emulation.

He had a weak point, this fortune notto.

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 spirits. For the most part their enthusiasm was adopted to suit the time and opportunity.

To practice imposter among the British and Austrian millionaires, in painting and gemery, fortune notto, like his countrymen, was a quack.

But in the matters of old wines, he was sincere.

In this respect I did not differ from him materially. I was skillful in the Italian ventures myself and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk one evening during the supreme madness of the Connidol season that 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 party-striped dress and his head was surrounded by a conical cap and bells.

I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should have never done ringing his hand.

I said to him,

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