I am glad I took Dr. Peterson's advice of going to the library. I adore the scent of books and the library is the best place for this wonderful aroma. It feels so cozy and warm in this library, it truly is one of the most beautiful ones in all of New Orleans. It even has stained glass windows that make me feel as if I am somewhere ancient.

Nicolas follows me close behind as I head up to the reference desk, where the reference librarian looks up at me and smiles. His glasses fall to the tip of his nose. He adjusts them and stands up straight in his chair.

"How may I help you today?"

"I am looking for any information on Marie Guidry, sir."

"I apologize, but I am not familiar with this name. Could you give me more information on her?"

"She's pretty well known in the music world for composing a failed opera," I say.

"Oh!" he exclaims, nodding his head. "Yes, now I recognize the name. Marie Guidry. La Fleuve, right?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "La Soubrette."

"Right," he says with a nod. "Any information that you will find on Marie Guidry could be found in the music section, but my suggestion to you is to go browse JSTOR online. The wealth of information on these databases is invaluable. And you," he says, looking at Nicolas. "Are you with her?"

Nicolas nods.

"I wish you luck. Let me know what information you can find. I am always eager to expand my wealth of knowledge. One step closer to becoming erudite!" He clasps his hands together and grins from ear to ear.

***

It has been a while since we started looking up anything on Marie Guidry, and we came up with dead end after dead end.

"Do you think it might be a good idea to give up?" Nicolas asks. "We've been on JSTOR for an hour now and we haven't found anything yet."

"I'm going to keep looking," I say. "I think maybe my keyword is too general. There are so many women named Marie Guidry. I'll try adding Ignace Leblanc to the search since Dr. Peterson said that she hated him. There has to be a reason."

And sure enough, something comes up. Relief washes over me as I click on one of the articles and begin reading the preliminary article.

Marie Guidry, a rather provocative figure from the early to mid 1700s. She was one of the Mutinous Women, who arrived to what is now considered New Orleans in 1720. Marie, in her past, before coming to New Orleans was a prostitute and a prisoner who boarded the ship in an effort to make a new life for herself. She married the blacksmith Francois Guidry and they had two children together. The youngest of the two, Jacques, is considered to be ancestor of of the most wealthy and influential Guidry family. Jacques eventually became a sugar baron, and his son built the Guidry Mansion, a home that stands on St. Charles Avenue, near Loyola University and Tulane. She was also somewhat of an amateur musician, having eventually learned music during her life in New Orleans. Her opera, La Soubrette, penned sometime in 1721, is considered to be one of the worst operas in very early American history. Its first staging, sometime in the mid 1700s, was met with boos and laughter. A rival and contemporary of Guidry, the pragmatic composer, Ignace Leblanc, composed La Fleuve around the same time, which has become one of the greatest operas in history. Perhaps it is this reason that Marie Guidry detests Leblanc? In this article, Victor Velazquez Pena dissects Guidry's La Soubrette and parallels the women of her time period to the Mutinous Women.

"It looks like Marie and Ignace Leblanc were rivals," I say turning over to Nicolas.

He nods and drums his fingers on the computer desk. "I think that poor woman may have been rejected by her society due to her past, no?"

"What do you mean?"

"She was a mutinous woman," he says. "And a prostitute. Perhaps her past did not go over well with society at the time."

I frown, nodding. "I think you might be right, but her opera is genuinely terrible though. It has no heart. It's just boring."

"I admit I have never heard of Marie Guidry nor heard La Soubrette. Search for more on Ignace Leblanc on JSTOR," he says. "See what it says about him. Everyone knows who he is. There could be something else, more that we do not know."

"I only know that he lived New Orleans briefly. He was also a military officer in his youth before serving in the French court as a musician. He was no Jean Philipe Rameau or Monteverdi, but Rameau was a fan of La Fleuve. I used to play flute in an opera house in Spain and they did a run of La Fleuve. It is a wonderful opera. Very haunting, especially with the ending, when the girl drowns in the river at the end."

"It is sad," I say, frowning. "But at least the girl is finally happy when she drowns. She ascends to Heaven. The pain she had to endure in that opera, no wonder why it was such a popular opera among everyone, despite being so sad."

"Yes," Nicolas says, smiling. "I think it's because it spoke to people about the boundaries of life and death."

The more that I look at Nicolas, the less out of touch with myself I feel. I can't explain it. It begins as something in my stomach that rises up to my chest and now it is growing tighter. I find it increasingly difficult to breathe as I clench onto the mouse. The computer area around me fades until there is nothing left but me sitting near a cypress tree by a river. There is nothing around me but cypress trees and the river. Is it the Mississippi?

I look to my side, and there is Nicolas, but he's dressed differently. In what reminds me of French military clothes from who knows how long ago, probably the early 18th century.

Do not ignore it any longer.

"Go away," I whisper, trembling. "Please not again. Go away."

Pay attention to what she is telling you.

"Madame Guidry," the man who looks just like Nicolas says. "Did you finish your opera yet?"

"Not quite," I find myself saying beyond my control. The words I want to say are not coming out to the surface. It is like I am trapped in my own body, another voice speaking for me.

My body grows heavier and I feel as if I am slipping away. The river changes, almost as if morphing. The area around me shifts and whirls as I open my eyes and once again I am not in the computer area at the college library.

I'm on a train.