One Midnight (ONC 2024) ✔️

Chapter Nineteen- Bernadette

1721

Francois is gone with the men on some kind of expedition, and I have been left to my own devices, holding my own fort. It has been delicious, the moments that I have to myself, where I can sit down at our small table and write down my notes. They are quick scrawls and the music is perhaps rudimentary at best, but it is my own. My very own music and it is something that I can hold onto during the moments where I go back to my life. Nicolas did his best to teach me counterpoint before he left on the expedition, something that he struggled with in the music school. Counterpoint was the reason why he left music behind because the theory of it all was too much for him.

But for me, counterpoint is like a puzzle. Seeing what fits, what does not work. I do not understand how this can be difficult for anyone — once you understand it.

When I close my eyes, I see that little girl, that flower seller, traipsing about the crowded streets, screaming out in a voice that no one could ever hear. I blended in, almost as I had become one with the city and that is why the Parisians never noticed me. But I noticed them. The people, the pattering of children's feet on cobblestone pathways. The trickling of rain down a rooftop. The gentle hush a new mother gives to their child.

Then I hear the sound that takes me out of my own reverie. The sound of rapping at my door. I grunt in frustration as I set the pen down next to the ink. Someone knocks with urgency. And as soon as I open the door, I notice Bernadette standing there with a covered basket.

"Come in," I say.

"It is things for your home, Marie. Things that no longer belong to my husband that he wishes to part with."

"Thank you. You did not have to do this," I say.

" It is no problem," she says, eyeing the paper at the table. "What on earth is this? It looks like some strange notations."

"Oh, that?" I run to the staff papers and pick them up, clutching it to my chest. "It is nothing."

"Nothing is an empty page, Marie."

"It is my music," I confess.

"Your music?" she says, arching a brow. "Since when can you put down notes on a page?"

I shrug. "It is just something that I can do."

"Marie," she shakes her head. "This is incredible. I know you must not want me to look at it, but I wish to see it."

I bring it back to the table and set it out for her.

"You can do it without a reference?" she looks up at me and then shakes her head.

"Yes," I say. "I do not know how I can do it this way, but it is like I hear the music in my head and I have to put it down on paper or I will go mad."

"You know my father was a musician. His father was a court musician before he became sick and died a pauper. But he taught my papa how to play the organ. But how did you learn?"

Yet, with all of this, I find myself wondering why Nicolas has not yet chosen a wife, while many of the men here have.

"I taught myself."

"You taught yourself," she says, arching a brow. "I have known you for decades, Marie. Out with it. Tell me the truth."

"I have been going to Officer Moreau's home at midnight."

"I cannot believe it," she says. "I could've sworn that I was hearing something late at night, but thought it was all in my head. Why Officer Moreau, that awful stick in the mud?"

"There is a group of men and women who meet in private around midnight."

She scoffs. "Oh of course. A group of men and women who meet at midnight. And you did not think for once to invite me?"

"Bernadette," I say. "It is because your husband despises the concept of expansion of La Nouvelle Orleans. It is not you."

"She frowns, crossing her arms against her chest, not meeting me where I stand in front of her. "I cannot believe it."

"Bernadette, I'm sorry. I—"

"You what, Marie? Sorry that you did not think to include me in your meetings with all of these people? I have been beside myself with loneliness. I have not even consummated my marriage because my husband is too old. He has been a good man, yes. He is very kind to me and for that I am grateful, but I am lonely. I thought we were best friends, but you keep me from these meetings. I hope you have a wonderful time with your new friends, Marie. I will be leaving now."

"No, Bernadette," I say. "Don't go. Please stay. I will take you the next time we have a meeting. Great things are happening here. We have so much potential for expansion, if only you could convince Pierre to change his mind."

"Goodbye, Marie. I thought we were friends, but I think not."

"Bernadette," I cry out, grabbing her hand in an attempt to get her to stay. "Please come to a meeting."

"I would rather rot in hell," she says. "I do not wish to expand. I like La Nouvelle Orleans the way that it is. It is nothing like Paris and I love that." 

"Bernadette. Nicolas Moreau has fine ideas." 

"On first name terms with him, I see?" She scoffs. "I wonder what your virile, perfectly capable husband thinks of that. God, do you not see how lucky you are?" 

"What does that even mean, Bernadette? My husband is not kind to me." I frown. "I thought you understood that." 

She does not respond as she slams the door and storms out.