(Author's Note: This was written rather quickly, though it turned out better than I thought. It was a short story in which I tried to write in the style of Edgar Allen Poe, for a writing assignment for english, and this classic revenge tale was something I liked so much I thought I'd let others enjoy it.)

Maitre Boursean had gone too far.

Long had my family lived on the edge of his estate, and long have we paid our due respect to him, but the 'honored' Boursean had pushed things beyond the boundaries of polite society. I could no longer stand his utter disregard for my family nor the crimes he committed against us.

When did this all begin? I can scarcely remember the real root of this issue, but it all culminated when my older brother, Jean, died. Jean was no weak child, either. Our family was poor, and often we had little or nothing to eat. Since Maitre Boursean was so well-to-do, our family had come to ask for his good graces and grant us a little of the scraps from his table. Whilst Jean and I were wandering the streets, Jean happened upon Maitre Boursean and knelt before him, pleading for any sort of coin or crust of bread he could spare.

I never saw my brother again. By the time I got there, Maitre Boursean had dealt the final blow. As I ran to my beloved Jean's side, I could hear Boursean mutter something under his breath.

"You are saleté."

The words burned into my memory, and whenever I envision my brother, I can hear the good Maitre Boursean muttering those words, mocking me with them.

That was so long ago, I can scarcely remember. Since then, my family had been forgotten by Maitre Boursean. If ever he saw my face, he seems to have forgotten it. The mask of age and beauty had hidden away the grief and anger, and the good Maitre Boursean could not remember me for the young girl who had cried for her dead brother so many years ago.
He was much older than me, but with the death of sa femme, he had been searching for a new woman to share his bed with. So I saw my opportunity for my vengenace.

The year had been good to me, and with age came beauty, and the Maitre Boursean had an eye for beautiful women. It wasn't hard for me to catch his attention, and with practiced words, I charmed him, and soon, we were to be married.

The day of the wedding came, and as Maitre Boursean escorted me around the villa where we were to be wed, he kept smiling and telling me that tonight would be it.

"Yes," I agreed. "Tonight will be it."

The wedding was beautiful, but it meant nothing to me. I was not in love with this man, but I loathed him. The ceremony came and past, and I was soon sa femme.

I was escorted to his house, where we would retire for the evening and consummate our marriage. I was taken to his chambers, where we dined, though I knew my time would soon come. Smiling softly to my new husband, I spoke.

"Let me get you a drink."

Pleased with my servitude, he agreed, continuing his meal while I poured the deadly draught with which he would soon perish. The wine was the finest he could afford, amontillado, and he hardly noticed the small pellet let fall from my sleeve into the cup before I poured it in.

Offering him the glass, he drank heavily, returning my sweet smiles as I watched him, drinking from my own, unpoisoned glass. Soon enough, I could see he was having trouble thinking. His actions were unsteady, and he looked about, gripping onto the table for support. It was too late for him now.

"Mon amoure, please... send for the doctor, for I fear I am ill..."

I went to his side, but said nothing, watching him in all of his pain, enjoying it as he gripped the table, his knuckles turning white as he gripped it as if it was his own life. It didn't last, and he fell back, out of his chair, and onto the ground.

"Mon amoure, what is this trahison?"

He was dying now, and yet I held off the answer to his question until I knew it would be the last words he would hear. As I said them, recognition flooded into his face as he remembered the boy he had once killed. Finally, he remembered the sweet little girl who cried for her brother. The same sweet little girl who was now standing over him, smiling at him on his death bed as she echoed the same words to him that he had said to the boy whom he beat to death.

"You are saleté."

French Words Used
saleté - dirt, filth
Maitre - sir, Honored Sir (used for aristocracy)
sa femme - his wife
vengenace - revenge, vengeance
mon amoure - my love
trahison - betrayal