So we kept going, right up to the front door. Shortly, I was knocking on it. Peters and I had to pound long and hard before Montresor answered. When he did he looked surprised, annoyed and vaguely alarmed in quick succession, and then simultaneously.
I suppose the general appearance of our group was not reassuring.
"Mr. Montresor?" I said, hoping hard that he knew some English.
He studied my face for several long seconds, then nodded.
"Yes. What is it?" he asked.
"It concerns the delivery of this case of Chateau-Margaux, of the antelope brand, violet seal," I explained.
His gaze shifted to the large case, where it was instantly taken prisoner. His wariness and annoyance faded. He licked his lips.
"I do not understand," he said. "I did not order this. Are you selling it? Is it a gift? Are you messengers?"
"You might say we are messengers," I told him. "Though in this city, at this time, ordinary messengers are hard to come by."
"True," he said, nodding. "And what sort might you be?"
"We are," I told him, "all that is left of a troupe of entertainers. We were sent for by Prince Prospero, but we were not able to reach the abbey before its gates were sealed. The soldiers refused to admit us, and they also refused to inquire of the prince himself whether he wanted us admitted.
"And so," I continued, "we have been reduced to trying to trade this crate of fine wine for food and a secure place to stay. It was originally intended for Prospero, but those who brought it here abandoned it and fled, for fear of the Red Death."
"Of course," he muttered, opening the door wider, still staring at the case. "Won't you bring it inside?"
At this, we all moved forward simultaneously. Eyes widening, he raised a hand. "No," he said. "The ape and the bird must remain outside."
"They can't be left unattended," I said.
"Then let the lady keep them company while you transport the crate," he suggested. "I cannot offer you assistance with it, as my servants are also fled.
"But a certain matter of great moment compels me to remain," he added, almost under his breath.
Fortunato suddenly lurched into view behind him, still wearing his jester's cap and bells. He took a swig from a small glass flask with a broken, jagged neck, then tried focussing his gaze in our direction.
"What's keeping you?" he asked. "I want to go at that pipe of Montal— Montin—"
"Amontillado!" Grip shrieked, and the man stumbled back, a look of terror suddenly upon his face.
"The Devil!" he cried, continuing to back away.
"No," I answered Montresor. "We don't bring it in unless all of us come with it."
"An ass! Luchesi's an ass! You know that, Montresor?" Fortunato suddenly exclaimed. "An ignoramus!
Couldn't tell sherry from vinegar—"
The man in motley broke into a suspicious coughing fit.
"Nothing," he said quickly then, his English more heavily accented than Montresor's. "It is not the plague. I will not die of a cough."
"No," said Montresor, eyeing him thoughtfully. "I think we may safely say that you will not."
Montresor turned away from him then and stood back from the door. He gestured.
"Come in—all of you—then. This way. We must convey it below."
We entered and he secured the door. Peters and I followed him. Ligeia, Emerson, and Grip followed us.
Fortunato stumped and staggered along even farther to the rear, alternately cursing, singing, and muttering about Luchesi's stupidity. Just your typical Friday night in a plague-ridden city.
Montresor led us down a curving stone stair to his vast cellar. Oddly, pitch-soaked torches and large candles blazed in numerous niches and holders. It seemed an unusual extravagance in such a sequestered portion of the house.
At last Peters and I reached the bottom and deposited the box, at Montresor's direction, in a subterranean passage which seemed to lead off into a species of catacomb. I was particularly anxious to go farther, for it seemed likely that the tunnel we sought must have its beginning somewhere nearby.
There were skulls and other human bones visible in the nitre-encrusted walls, and the shadows flitted like dark fingers across them. Cobwebs hung like fishing nets at every irregularity, and the rustling sounds of retreating vermin brought to mind the ordeal in Toledo which still troubled my slumbers.
Montresor saw the direction of my gaze and smiled.
"This place was once the burial ground for the abbey," he said, with a gesture to the grisly remains.
"That was back in the days before Prince Prospero's father had driven out the monks and taken the property for himself."
We transported the crate to a position near the wall which he had indicated, and there we set it down.
"There is some connection to this abbey, then?" I asked.
He did not reply, but—to my surprise—turned away. I had half-expected him to pry open the crate at once, to gloat over his acquisition. Instead, he took a few paces away from us, and I could see that his attention was on Fortunato. Fortunato had seated himself on a bony ledge, and I now noted that he was studying Ligeia's tall and slender figure, her curling raven hair, with an expression most simply described as lust.
Montresor muttered something about drink which the son of an actress might well recognize, " 'Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance ... makes him stand to, and not stand to ... and, giving him the lie, leaves him.' "
I did not applaud, however, as he did an about-face, as I was shifting my attention to Ligeia who was ignoring the drunken jester entirely.
Our host drew nearer, touched my arm lightly and steered me a few paces off to the side.
"Are you, my good fellow, still seeking entrance to the abbey?" he asked.
I bowed. That the gesture had in it more of mockery than of humility seemed only in character, no doubt.
"It is our profoundest wish, sir," I replied.
"Then let me show you. There is indeed a tunnel," he said. "It is sealed at the abbey end, walled up there in my father's time, or perhaps my grandfather's. The current prince himself does not know of this passage."
"Sealed!" I said. "Then how are we to get through?"
"It is simple enough," he explained. "I will give you tools—hammers, a prying bar. Stout fellows such as yourselves will have no difficulty getting through that thin wall at the far end of the passage. You will then find yourselves in the remotest corner of one of the abbey's storerooms. But—and this is important—you will seal up that wall again, as soon as you have broken out. And then you must hide your tools, put them down one of the many wells within the abbey's cellars. Otherwise the prince may discover the tunnel—know that someone has just come in, bringing possible contagion—and hunt you down, and—"
Montresor broke off here, and with a swift movement of his foot flattened and smeared a scurrying beetle on the stone floor. For a moment, we considered the result in thoughtful silence.
"The prince," he concluded, "fears one thing only. And that is the Red Death."
And so we agreed to Montresor's plan. The only problem was Valdemar. He would have to be left behind. I could hardly speak openly of this difficulty with my companions while Montresor was within earshot. But Ligeia perceived the difficulty at once. With a dramatic flourish of her cloak she turned to me suddenly.
"Edgar, I have given this more thought," she announced, a quaver to her words, a quiver to her lip. "I cannot accompany you. I fear to enter the stronghold of a prince whose cruelty is legendary. You must go on without me."
Was there once, or was there still, I suddenly wondered, some special tie between these two—Ligeia and Valdemar—which did not depend upon mesmerism? Odd thought. I was uncertain where it had come from or why it seemed possibly appropriate.
Montresor stared at her as if he were about to argue. But we were a formidable group, obviously strong and somewhat reckless. He elected to remain silent.