Fernand Mondego stared off blankly into the crowded, noisy tavern as he drained another glass of Scotch. His wavy blonde hair, a particular favorite of the ladies, or so he thought, was a disheveled mess. His clothes, the high fashion of Paris, matched his coiffure. His neckloth looked like it had been arranged by a blind valet and his waistcoat was an embarrassment. A man is allowed to look like this, however, when he loses his family, fortune and reputation in a matter of days.
He placed the glass down on the table in front of him. To his surprise, a young attractive woman now stood before him with a baby in her arms. Fernand's intoxicated mind labored to recall the woman, but remembering mistresses had never been his strong suit.
"Monsieur Mondego?" she asked by way of confirmation. Fernand mustered a roguish smile.
"The very same".
"Oh good, I was desperate to find you." Suddenly he remembered her face. It was the Viscount Toville's wife recently made a widow by Fernand's own hand.
"It was an unfortunate business with your husband, but it couldn't be helped."
"Yes it was, but I'm not here about him, I'm here about my baby." Fernand's face took on a disdainful glower.
"Oh let me guess. This baby, you'll tell me is my bastard son. Well I'm quite through supporting bastard children, and besides, I have no money presently".
"No, no monsieur. This baby belongs to Edmund Dantes". Fernand's smile evaporated and was replaced by a look of suppressed rage with a dash of confusion. "You've got to be kidding me" he thought.
"Then why in heaven's name do you need to see me?"
"You were his friend and I thought you might like to meet him—
"Well I don't, and I can't imagine why you'd think I would now get out of my sight wench." The angered young woman scurried off. Fernand was too far into the Scotch to consider the peculiarity of the exchange. He dispensed with the glass and reached straight for the bottle. After draining it in another long draught, he dabbed the clammy, drunk-sweat from his face with the absurd cuffs of his shirtsleeves. He stood up from the table and headed to the bar for a fresh carafe. He felt like he was standing on the prow of a cargo ship being drawn into a whirlpool, but he managed to reach the bar. As he waited for the barkeep to bring him a bottle he heard a female voice shriek:
"Fernand!?" He turned to regard her.
"Madame?" He was feeling just a might too terrible to attempt to charm her.
"Do you remember me?" Fernand gave a slight shrug. "Paris?"
"Paris? I'm afraid you just made this memory exercise even more challenging."
"I just wanted to thank you for that amazing dinner party you hosted…where I met the Count of Monte Cristo". Fernand was speechless. His piercing blue eyes took on a vacant quality. He reached for the fresh bottle. "Never have I met such a gentleman before. He was just the most breathtak-
"I'm glad I could be of service, my dear" he said as he boozily waved to her with bottle in hand cutting the conversation short. He made his way back to the table. It was a good thing he had been a sailor, otherwise he never would have made it. Fernand slowly opened up the new bottle, beginning to think even he couldn't handle that much alcohol. As he contemplated exactly how much more he could drink, a well-dressed older gentleman approach his table.
"I swear if you bring some news of Edmund Dantes, or any of his bastard children I will run you through." The well-dressed man laughed amicably.
"No monsieur, I'm here to see you." Fernand gestured for the man to sit down.
"Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you."
Fernand smirked as he poured a little into his glass—he decided to be a little more decorous with a guest at the table.
"You really don't look well, monsieur". Fernand found the over-concern more laughable than offensive.
"I admit, I have looked better. But don't worry, it's not going to kill me." The older man's gaze never left Fernand's eyes. He was beginning to feel unsettled.
"No, indeed it cannot…because you are already dead." This declaration caused Fernand to choke on the shot.
"Listen you daft old man, leave me in peace. Everyone in this tavern seems intent upon upsetting me."
"I can prove it to you." With this the older man reached forward across the table. Fernand reflexively leaned back and reached for his sword handle—he wasn't wearing it. "Where is my sword!?" The older man paused and gave Fernand a reassuring gaze and gently drew open the left side of Fernand's tail coat—revealing a deep, nasty gash. Fernand gazed down bewildered, more than terrified.
"You'd think I'd remember something that serious," He slowly touched the gaping wound.
"Fatal, in fact. Unless your heart is situated somewhere other than the left side of your chest". Fernand's ears perked up at the phrase. It began to dawn on him just how bizarre the place was. Madame Toville would never be in such a place, and she never had an affair with the Count. The strange older man seemed to have personal knowledge of Fernand's greatest hits and, as he reflected on it, he couldn't even remember how he got there in the first place.
"I suppose this is my own personal hell, then? An eternal alcoholic stupor interrupted by Edmund Dantes' fanclub?"
"Actually, monsieur, you should be very relieved. This is your own personal purgatory. You just made the cut"
"I'm hard pressed to tell the difference," he replied as he looked down at the ugly wound.
"Oh there is a significant difference, my friend. Once you serve your time here, you get to enter eternal paradise. Of course, it is unpleasant to be confronted with your own misdeeds and personal fears, but Hell, I'm afraid, is a one stop shop."
Fernand smirked a little and observed, "So this is like prison, then?" The older gentleman straightened in his chair.
"Yes—not unlike the Chateau d'If." He stared into Fernand's eyes for emphasis. More resigned than angry Fernand replied:
"St. Peter must have a sense of humor." The older smiled a little.
"A sense of justice. Which, in fact, is why you are here. You weren't always so bad Fernand Mondego. And, truth be told, you got a bit of a raw deal yourself."
"I did, didn't I?" Fernand said genuinely agreeing.
"Not really, but your wife should have been honest with you from the beginning. Paternity fraud will earn you a little time here to be sure." Fernand felt a little more sober, even eager, to understand what he had to do next.
"Well how long must I stay?"
"Let's see", the older man began as he tried to recall all of Fernand's misdeeds, "you got your best friend put into a miserable prison, you murdered a man, piracy, corruption, you ignored your wife and child—
"Not my child—I believe we already established that"
"You didn't know that and besides there is more. Serial infidelity, oh and you shot your wife—
"-who was leaving me"
"Not an excuse."
"So I can expect to be here some time then?"
"However long it takes for you to become the man who was Edmund Dantes' greatest friend."
"Of course it would come back to him…well what should I do to start?" Fernand said as the older gentleman rose from the table.
"It's complicated," this clear reference to his own words cut Fernand to the quick. "But you will figure it out." The man rose from the table and took the bottle of Scotch. "You can start by swearing off this stuff. Got you into enough trouble," with that, he strode off. Fenrand was once again alone with his drunken misery sans the comfort of another glass of Scotch. He decided it wouldn't do much harm to have one more bottle so he made his way back to the bar with as much dignity as he could muster (not that it really mattered given the setting) and asked the barkeep to bring him one more.
"Sorry, monsieur, we are all out." Fernand's heart sank.
"Purgatory indeed."