One Midnight (ONC 2024) ✔️

Chapter Twenty-Three - A Betrayal

I hold the child's hand. I float with her through the crowded streets of New Orleans. We brush past several people who seem to not notice us. The air around me feels different — it does not feel sticky and humid but light and airy.

"Come with me," she says, looking back at me with a huge smile.

I cannot help but feel that connection when I see her eyes. There is something there that makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest, like I am so happy to see her, but at the same time I want to cry. There is so much depth in her eyes and the way they sparkle like diamonds. The way her face lights up when she sees me.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask. "And who are you?"

"You will know when you see it who I am."

"But why not?" I ask the child. "You're the most beautiful child I've ever seen."

"Follow me and when you wake up, you will finally see what you hide away from what fears you the most." She detaches from my hand and runs, leading me to go after her.

The child stops and waits for me, pointing her tiny finger. "It is here."

I see an old box, nestled in a courtyard. People brush past us, sitting down as they enjoy cocktails. The box, which stands against an old building, perhaps since the early 1700s, must have gone unnoticed through the years. Ivy vines choke it, but I am drawn to the box as the child brings me to it.

"Here it is," she says, her voice airy and cheerful. "This is where you open it. You must open the box to see the truth. Open it now."

It is difficult to open at first, but it eventually opens with some force. There is an overwhelming amount of dust and cobwebs that act as a solemn barrier to the interior. I swipe away at it with a stick from the ground and then I see it. A letter? I take it in my hands, it is stiff and I am afraid that if I breathe on it wrong, it will crumble into a million pieces.

"Read it," the child says, urging me on. "Read it now!"

I open it and at first, I do not understand what I am reading. The words are in French at first, but then they shift.

The contents of this opera are my heart and soul. I hope to present this music to the French court. I have heard that Elisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre is like me, a woman who composes music in the French court. I would very much like her to look over my opera. My situation, of course, is less than perfect. I live in a tiny outpost in the middle of nowhere called La Nouvelle Orleans. It is my new home, but I grew up in Paris —in Salpetriere Prison as I was falsely accused of a crime that I did not commit, and robbed of a chance at a proper life. I had no idea that I was capable of even composing a singular musical note, that is, until I discovered that I can play perfectly everything I hear. I see colors in my mind as I listen to music and I have since learned to compose my own melodies. This music is a part of me that exists deep in my core. 

The opera that I am writing is called La Fleuve. This opera is for all of the women who were falsely accused of crimes that we did not commit. I do not care what you think of us, the mutinous women, for I am sure you have heard of us to some capacity. And if you reject me for it, then may it be this way, but at least you have seen my opera. All characters in this opera are women who have made themselves from nothing. I hope that if Madame de la Guerre would consider looking at my music, I would be very much honored. From woman to woman, I hope that my opera strikes a chord with you.

Marie Lefevebre de Guidry

                                                                                                         ***

1721

With my music in my hand, I walk back into my home. Francois as always is sleeping. I tiptoe to the casket that I arrived to La Nouvelle Orleans with and quickly hide my music away. I am doing this action in the complete darkness of night, but it is something that I have grown accustomed to. Living for one year on a deplorable ship, you learn how to acclimate to darkness fast.

I put the music in my casket and shuffle the casket against the side of the wall. But I hear something unusual. A strange stirring, accompanied by a soft voice that sounds like someone of the opposing sex.

"Francois?" I ask, turning around.

He sits up. "What do you want?"

"I want to know what is going on," I say. "Is someone else here? Do not lie to me, Francois. I heard a woman."

"There is no woman here but you."

"I know there is someone," I say, grabbing our lantern and making it light up as I slowly approach the bed. "Show yourself, woman."

The woman comes from underneath the sheets and stares at me with narrow eyes, and her lips formed in what seems like a mix of disgust and shame. I cannot believe the woman that is sitting in front of me, in nothing more than her underthings. It stings me to my core, not because Francois has betrayed me. It is not that. I could care less about what that horrid man does behind my back, for I do not love him, even if I made the unfortunate mistake of binding my soul to him in marriage. I cannot believe that the woman he has decided to devour behind my back is her.

I see red all around me as I drag her by the hair and bring her outside, and I grunt, practically pushing her to the ground.

"Bernadette," I say, my lips trembling as tears fall down my cheek. "How could you do this to me?"

"You are not upset with Francois, but you are upset with me?" she scoffs. "Francois knows all about your little secret meetings with Nicolas Moreau behind his back. He knows what you've been doing to him night after night after night."

"You betrayed me," I say. "Why Francois? Why my husband?"

"Because one night," she says, scoffing. "When you were playing house at whatever meeting you were at with Officer Moreau, I went to him and we slept together. Oh and he is absolutely fantastic in bed too. I do not know why you do not appreciate your husband enough. Says you're like a dead fish in bed. Poor you." 

"Why, Bernadette?" I say, tears pooling in my eyes and clouding my vision. "How could you do this to me? You're my best friend, or so I thought." 

"I only talked to you because you were weak and helpless in prison. Always sobbing and moaning about being a virgin and being stuck in prison. Woe is me, woe is me. And meanwhile, I was sent to prison for injuring Monsieur Bourgeois who violated me and I fought back! I was the one with real pain here. Not you. Just take it, Marie. I wanted to throw you out of my cell because of your moaning. God, you make me sick!" She screams. 

"No, Bernadette," I say with pure vitriol. "It is you that makes me sick. Get out of my sight. Get out of here. I will tell the entire society what you did to my husband. Imagine what everyone will think then. If you leave, I will not tell a single soul. But go out West, I do not care what you do. From this day on, you are no longer my friend. You will never be. Not in this life, nor the next! I never want to see you again."