Horror on Royal Street

The sounds of laughter and tinkling glasses filled the parlor, and the mixed attar of caladium and callalillies drifted in on a slight breeze that intermittently floated through the windows. Pails of ice were set near the windows so that the breeze could touch cool air on the guests, tempering the humid heat of the summer evening. Madame Delphine LaLaurie, small, pale, and elegant in the latest Parisian style, walked around with her husband greeting guests from many of the established Creole families of New Orleans. Almost everyone who had been invited had come, and the room overflowed with perfumed women and starched-neck gentlemen.

As was custom at a LaLaurie gala, the men eventually segregated to the den where Dr. LaLaurie passed out cigars and poured glasses of absinthe. The women remained in the parlor, drinking sherry, discussing the latest fashions under bright chandeliers sparkling with hundreds of candles. The LaLauries, willfully extravagant, accorded their guests non-stop libations both before and after the evening repast, which was hardly done in other households. So in turn, their guests praised this bacchanalian departure from New Orleans tradition to their peers, citing the LaLauries as the crème of Creole society.

Madame Delphine quietly congratulated herself as she smiled and nodded at some trifle Madame Marie Louviere was going on about. Soon, dinner would be served - lamb with mint julep, caramelized tomatoes, watercress salad, and wine. For dessert, chocolate crème liquor along with Napoleons. But the real pleasures would begin well after the party, after all the mewling and fawning had been done. After the guests had left and her husband had drifted off in his drunken stupor. She would make sure the servants kept his glass filled. Dr. Fontenot was staying the night but that was no difficulty either. She would prepare one of her special drinks just for him.

Unnoticed in the corners of the room, the slave women stood by waiting for the Mistress' signals. A hand dangling over her glass meant a refill for her and the guests. A hand held slightly near the face with a slight fanning motion was the command to the younger girls to take up the large palms standing upright near the windows and begin fanning the ladies. A turn of the her head towards the table with the plates of scallops on artichoke leaves and spiced rice rolls of course meant that the hor d'oeurves should be passed around again. The slaves, old and young, were quick to move, their eyes never missing a signal; their musky scents a miasma of sweat and fear. Mistakes incurred a heavy price.

Aimee, recently purchased, stood quietly along with the others. Her fear was double-tinged this night as she waited for a more personal signal. She sighed slightly as Miselle finally flashed four fingers quickly. Aimee nodded. Four more hours and they would escape this place forever. Harlan, Miselle's freeborn man, would have horses and papers waiting just outside the courtyard.

Madame signaled this time; it was Aimee's turn to move. She stepped from the corner and turned to open the carved cedar doors that separated parlor from the dining area. The ladies, delicate and genteel, adorned in yards of taffeta, lace and chiffon, stood up in one motion, then glided out of the room, leaving whiffs of gardenias, lilacs and rose blossoms in their wake. As they passed Aimee, some of the more "sensitive" wrinkled their noses at the earthy scent of her musk. They did not like the smell. Reminded them too much of the toil that God had seen fit to spare them.