The Horrible Secret

on Royal Street

Part I

I recently moved to the city of New Orleans to embark on a new life. I am not a Southerner by birth or disposition; but I was drawn to the Big Easy not for the great jazz or for the Creole cuisine that attracts so many others, but for the history. The history of New Orleans is easily accessible to anyone so inclined to such research. However, the true history of any city, I so maintained, was not to be found in history books, but in the fiction by authors who had visited or lived in that city. That truth can be found in fiction may sound absurd or paradoxical to some, but those who are voracious readers will readily accept the veracity of this concept. If one merely wants to know what event happened on what date, read the history book. But if one wants to know what people of the past thought and felt about themselves, read the writers of fiction.

My earliest acquaintance with the people of New Orleans past, then, actually began many years ago when I consumed the tales of George Washington Cable. Later, I became familiar with The Awakening and the short stories of Kate Chopin. Both Cable and Chopin reveal how the inhabitants of New Orleans, particularly the Creole population in the nineteenth century, behaved, thought, and felt. Thus, to my own readers who wish to learn more about the glorious yesteryears of old New Orleans, I recommend both Cable and Chopin as being far more suitable to that task than any modern writer.

Nevertheless, a city always has its secrets. Perhaps out of convention or propriety, writers of the past may have restrained themselves from revealing some or all information about any given event or person. More likely, perhaps because the secret had been kept so well guarded at the time, the writer in the past was unable to furnish the full or complete details for his or her narrative.

Such a secret had been kept now for over 150 years in connection with a certain well-known edifice on Royal Street in the Vieux Carre (or French Quarter, as it is now commonly called).

My discovery of the secret began some months ago. I had taken a job as a teller at a prominent bank on Canal Street. This was not the first time that I have worked at a bank; and I expected, perhaps naively, that the camaraderie among the tellers that had existed at my last place of employment would also occur at this branch on Canal Street. As in any business where the number of employees is fairly small, a worker, such as myself, quickly learns many intimate details of his fellow workers whether he wishes to or not. And I did, indeed, soon become privy to many of the personal details of several people there.

One man, however, remained a complete mystery to me. For the sake of convenience, I will call him Gagnon although I assure the reader that Gagnon is not his real name. The living require their privacy more so than the dead.

Since Mr. Gagnon often worked in the "cage" adjacent to my own, I made a point to be as polite and friendly to him as possible. He was always civil, but he never said more than was necessary. He was, how should I phrase this, a trifle cold. I respected him, though. He well fit the definition of the word gentleman. He was polite, honest, well-mannered, and impeccably dressed. I wondered what was going on beneath the surface.

One day I was having lunch with two of my co-workers, Bruce and Kathy (I had by that time entered on a first-name basis with all of the other tellers except Mr. Gagnon), when Bruce, who had been transferred from the Prytania branch Uptown to the Canal Branch only some months before my arrival, inquired about Gagnon. Kathy's response was terse, almost cryptic: "Well, you know, he's a Creole."

So, I had encountered a genuine Creole and did not even know it. That explains much, I thought. The behavior and the manners of the Creole are certainly much different from those of other Americans. Of course, my impressions were deeply influenced by nineteenth century literature. What did I know of the modern Creole?

From that day on, I took it upon myself to find out more about Mister, or Monsieur, Gagnon. Everyday I asked him to have lunch with me. Every evening I always asked him if he would like to stop for a drink. He always refused, politely.

Undaunted, I continued to ask the questions for a period of several weeks. One day, to my surprise and joy, he said that he would deem it an honor to join me for a drink.

Our conversations, as that meeting for a drink would mark the first of many, were impersonal and general at first. We discussed work, sports, entertainment, or politics at various times. But, even in the most general of conversations, if one is observant and listens carefully, an individual can glean a tremendous amount of information about another. One's tastes, even one's personal philosophy and moral values, are revealed in discussions on even the most superficial of topics. Thus, within a relatively short period of time, I had come to learn much about the usually taciturn Mr.Gagnon, or Henri, as I was soon able to call him.

Indeed, my initial favorable impression and respect for Gagnon only increased upon greater acquaintance with the man. He was, most truly, an honorable man. And even though I found him far more conservative than my own views allowed and despite the differences in our ages, I soon developed a sympathy of spirit with the man. I use the word sympathy to suggest communicability, compatibility, understanding, and friendship. To put it more simply, I liked him immensely; and I believe the feelings were returned.

After a number of months our relationship had advanced to a point where Gagnon invited me to his home where, he promised, his wife would cook for me a genuine Creole dinner. I was doubly excited by the invitation. As a bachelor who could not cook, I had long grown tired of eating out at restaurants; and since my income was not a large one, that often meant resorting to the fast-food franchises. But more exciting than the promise of a good, home-cooked Creole meal was the lure of learning even more about my friend Gagnon and about his wife, Marguerite.

Gagnon had told me little about his wife in the short time I had known him. In fact, other than her name, the only two facts I knew about her were (1) she was a Creole and (2) in the very traditional and time-honored sense, she was a housewife. I did not even know whether she and Gagnon had any children. I am always amazed how one may not even know the most basic facts about his acquaintances or friends.

The night of the promised dinner I arrived promptly at the requested hour at Gagnon's house on 2nd Street in the traditional and wonderful section of New Orleans known as the Garden District. Gagnon's home was a tasteful Victorian two-story structure that had obviously been built in the mid to late nineteenth century. I suspected that this home had been passed down to him as an inheritance since it had the splendor (and accompanying high-market value) to be out of the typical bank teller's range.

The furnishings within, which I viewed as Gagnon led me into the parlor, were as tasteful, elegant, and old as the house itself. If it had not been for the electric lights, I would have sworn that I had just stepped back in time.

"Marguerite," Gagnon called out in a loud, yet somehow also controlled and gentle, voice, "our young visitor, Robert, has arrived."

Gagnon pronounced my name in the French fashion, when he had never done so before; but before I could ponder that, the remarkable Marguerite Gagnon entered the room. She was, no doubt, close in age to Gagnon himself, about fifty; but her hair contained no hint of gray. It was naturally long, dark, luxurious, flowing. And her eyes were even darker, a shiny jet black. She embodied the epitome of the dark, feminine, Mediterranean beauty. She was so beautiful I thought she was glowing. I could not take my eyes off her, and I could barely mumble a greeting to her.

Her smile, her naturalness, her ease, and her deportment, however, soon made me feel comfortable and return to the land of the conscious.

Our conversation before dinner was light and polite and centered on the usual getting-acquainted topics. Our focus of conversation during dinner concerned Creole cuisine, the intricacies of which Marguerite explained to me in detail but which were utterly lost on me since, as I revealed earlier, I lack all knowledge and ability concerning the art of cooking. Nevertheless, I cannot remember ever eating so well in my life. Marguerite served up several main dishes, crawfish etouffee, shrimp remoulade, and crabmeat ravigote, as well as choice wines and numerous side dishes, topped off by a heavenly creme brulee for dessert. There was enough food for a dozen people although Gagnon and I did our best to make sizeable dents in all of the dishes. I was surprised that Gagnon was not a much heavier man. Marguerite ate lightly, but her half smile indicated that she was pleased over how much I enjoyed the food and the evening.

Afterwards, we sat in the parlor for an appertif; and at this our conversation moved away from food and weather to more interesting topics. At one point Marguerite asked, "So, Robert, what brought you to New Orleans in the first place?" Her tone was polite and casual. I felt no sense of her prying by asking that question.

"I'm something of a history buff," I explained. "In fact, I even majored in history at college. At that time I was more interested in ancient cultures, you know, the Egyptians and the Babylonians. But lately I've taken a greater interest in my own country. Previously I had not thought the United States had any, uhm, mystery to it; but now I realize that there are more mysteries, more secrets, than I ever thought possible."

"And you think," Gagnon queried, "that you will be able to learn about such secrets here in New Orleans?" Gagnon's face had a look in it that I had never seen before. He was neither skeptical nor curious. Yet he was not bored or disinterested either, as many people are when I get going on history. If I had to describe his look in one word, I would say that he was amused.

Before I could respond, Marguerite. with a twinkling smile that made her appear slightly curious but also somewhat amused, elaborated upon Gagnon's question by asking, "What kind of secrets are you referring to?"

"Well," I thought, "there are a number of past secrets that have become revealed in more recent years or decades, such as the relationship between the pirate Jean Lafitte and Andrew Jackson before he was the president, around the time of the Battle of New Orleans. Those kinds of stories humanize history, for then we learn no longer to idolize the presidents or heroes of the past as demi-gods or superhuman entities, which, unfortunately, is often the way they are presented to schoolchildren. I believe it is important for us to see the so-called great men, or women, of the past as individuals with human weaknesses and foibles, like any of us, who are, at times, forced to compromise their positions and their values. I think such revelations make our own lives easier: we can then accept our own failures when those times come, as they almost always most surely do."

I then turned to Gagnon to respond to his question as well as to proceed with my own discourse. I hoped I wasn't sounding too pedantic; but I had approached a topic about which I was earnestly sincere and obviously passionate. As I continued to speak, I probably got louder and more intense. "Yes, Henri, I do, then, think there are such secrets here in New Orleans. But to me the more interesting secrets are not the ones about the great figures of the past, not the ones about political intrigues and world events. Rather, I'm far more interested in the personal stories of individuals whose names rarely or never enter the general history books, the kinds of individual whose stories seem to be more the work of fiction than of fact."

"And how do you discover the stories about such private or unknown individuals?" Marguerite asked. The color rose in her cheeks. I wondered whether she was blushing or merely experiencing the effect of a warm, sultry New Orleans night.

"Sometimes, in fact, I'd say usually, the stories uncover themselves. Occasionally, such stories remain a secret for all time. But I'd say that's the exception rather than the rule. I think it's a basic human instinct for people to reveal the truth. Essentially, we're not capable of keeping secrets. I think the ancient Greeks knew this as well. I'm sure you're familiar with the Greek myth of Midas and his donkey ears?"

"I may have read it as a child, "Marguerite said, "but I would appreciate it if you would kindly refresh my memory."

"Glad to," I said. "In a nutshell, King Midas is asked to judge a music contest among several immortals. In so doing, he offends one of the gods, Apollo, I believe; and, as a punishment for his lack of judgment, Apollo turns the ears of Midas into those of an ass. Midas is able to keep this secret from everybody except his barber, who, despite the oaths that he swore to his king, runs off to a riverbank, digs a whole in the ground, whispers the secret into the hole, and then covers the hole back up. Later, some reeds grow where the hole had been dug; and whenever the wind would blow, the reeds would whisper, 'King Midas has ass's ears.' Eventually, the entire kingdom learns Midas's embarrassing secret." I reflected for a second. "I think the most important character in the story isn't Midas, but the barber."

"You think all of us are like the barber?" Gagnon asked, still maintaining his look of amusement.

"I know it," I answered with a smile.

At that point Marguerite stood up suddenly and excused herself. Before leaving, though, she asked us to put this particular conversation on hold for the moment as she did not wish to miss any more of my thoughts regarding the secrets of ordinary individuals.

Gagnon and I talked of bank matters as we waited for Marguerite's return. About twenty minutes later, she came back. And I have to say that I was even more overwhelmed than when I had first met her. Marguerite was positively glistening. At first I thought she might have been exercising, yet she was still wearing the extremely elegant evening dress that she had been wearing upon my arrival. In any event, the effect of whatever she had been doing only served to make her more stunning and exquisite than before. I felt like I was staring at a supernatural creature, and I must admit that my attraction to her was not just an aesthetic one. In a split second, two of the Seven Deadly Sins, lust and envy, possessed me. Of course, I was immediately embarrassed by my thoughts; and this time it was I who was blushing.

Marguerite, however, acted serenely and cordial; and Gagnon, who must have obviously sensed what I was feeling, overlooked my astonishment and embarrassment.

"I pray you two haven't been naughty in my absence," Marguerite teased.

"Naughty?" I gulped, somewhat nervously.

"That you have left me out of the conversation about secrets."

"Oh, no, no," I said rather quickly.

"We have been discussing nothing but dull bank matters," Gagnon added calmly.

"Please go on. I believe we were discussing Midas and his barber." Marguerite made me feel at ease once again.

"Yes," I said as I thought for a moment. "All of us are like that barber. We are just not capable of keeping secrets."

"You think it is one of our little foibles, no?" Gagnon added.

"Exactly," I responded.

"And have you found yet any such secrets since you have been here in New Orleans?" Marguerite asked.

"Not any new ones, not yet, anyway," I answered. "But there is one well-known French Quarter legend that has attracted my attention, and I can't seem to find out enough about it."

"And what legend is that?" Gagnon asked.

"Oh, it's one I'm sure you've heard plenty of times before. You know that gray early nineteenth-century mansion on Royal Street near the corner of Governor Nicholls Street, the one that's frequently referred to by tour guides as the haunted house? Well, it's the story that's connected with that house that fascinates me so immensely."

At that moment Gagnon peered at his wife with a deep, penetrating gaze. She looked at him in exactly the same manner. I mistook their looks as an indication that they weren't familiar with the story, so I proceeded.

"Surely, you have heard the story of Madame Delphine Lalaurie, the Creole woman who, back in the 1830's, kept slaves chained up in her attic and who would torture them unmercifully. And she was able to keep her barbaric activities a secret until a fire broke out in her home in 1834. You must know ..."

Gagnon spoke up abruptly. "We know the story quite well." Gagnon stared once again at his wife in a rather penetrating manner for some moments.

I immediately felt awkward. I wondered if I had breached some aspect of Creole propriety, if I had offended Gagnon and his wife in some way. I was stupid to bring up the story at all, I thought. There was for the moment an uncomfortable silence and a noticeable tension in the room.

That moment, however, was soon relieved by the charms of Marguerite. "It's quite all right, Robert. We were just surprised by the remarkable coincidence of your mentioning that particular story. You see, we were discussing that very story between ourselves just the other day."

"You were?" I said. the surprise obviously quite evident on my face.

"Normally," Gagnon explained, "Creoles do not discuss matters such as these, especially to, and please do not be offended by this term, but especially to outsiders."

"No offense taken," I said, somewhat relieved. "But even when the matter occurred more than a hundred years ago, you are still disinclined to discuss it?"

"Usually, yes," Gagnon said.

"And this particular matter affects us in a deeply personal way. You see ..." Marguerite was then interrupted by her husband.

"Not so much in a personal way," he corrected, "but in a coincidental way." Gagnon looked at his wife strangely for yet a third time. On this occasion, however, I got the distinct impression that he was trying to prevent Marguerite from revealing something, something personal. Gagnon then turned to me in an easy-going, open manner. "Nearly thirty years ago, when Marguerite and I were newlyweds, we moved into that house on 1140 Royal Street, which, as I guess you have already discovered, had been renovated and converted into an apartment complex. We rented a flat on the second story."

"You're not going to tell me that you saw any ghosts while you were living there, are you?" I asked, smiling, almost laughing. But then I quickly closed my mouth. I did not wish to offend Gagnon's beliefs if he did, by chance, believe in ghosts.

Gagnon's controlled smile indicated that he was not offended. "No, all the ghosts left sometime in the 1930's." Gagnon's expression appeared serious, and I wasn't sure whether he was teasing me or actually being sincere.

My puzzled expression must have been noticeable to Gagnon, who proceeded to narrate his account of their life in the haunted house. "Even at that time, many of the structures in the Vieux Carre were in sad need of repair. We had not been living in our new home for even two months when the electricity for the entire complex gave out. The electrician who was called in to repair the problem discovered that the task required more than the simple replacement of a few fuses: all of the wiring for the entire complex was fraying and needed to be replaced. Of course, we had to move out during this procedure."

"Yes, it was a terrible nuisance," Marguerite added. "Fortunately, we were able to stay with my cousin in Metairie for a while; and so we left our pleasant honeymoon palace until the work would be completed."

"About two days later," Gagnon said, picking up the narrative, "I returned to the flat to pick up a few personal items. The repairmen had been in our unit, and I could not help but notice that half of the walls were torn down. As I was looking around, I discovered a small wooden box stashed on the floor actually hidden inside the wall. The box appeared to be extremely old, and I instantly, instinctively, reached for it. How it became lodged within the wall I cannot even begin to guess."

"What was in the box?" I couldn't help almost shouting. I was highly excited. Gagnon's manner of speaking, with long pauses after nearly every sentence, only heightened my curiosity.

Gagnon proceeded, choosing to ignore my agitated state. "Of course, I opened it up right away. I knew that it could not possibly belong to the workmen because of its age. Opening the box, which had no lock, only confirmed my guess. At first I was extremely disappointed to find only an odd assortment of trinkets and such rubbish: ribbons, hair pins, buttons. But underneath all of these items I discovered something quite remarkable."

"What? What?" I asked.

Gagnon appeared pleased with the effect his narrative was having upon me. He smiled. "A diary," he finally answered.

"Whose diary?" I blurted.

"No name was written on the front or inside cover to reveal the name of the authoress, but the dates were clearly marked. The diary had been written in 1833 and 34; and, upon reading a few of the pages, I realized that it had been written by a young girl just entering her teenage years."

I was so surprised, shocked, and curious that I could not say a word. I took a sip of my drink. Only a few minutes later could I ask, "Are you telling me ..."

"Yes, exactly. The diary belonged to the daughter of Madame Delphine Lalaurie."

This was the find of the century. For decades writers and historians have speculated as to the character and motive of Madame Lalaurie. Some thought her insane. Others said she was just pure evil. For the first time in over 150 years new evidence had been uncovered to shed some insight on the mysterious figure of Delphine Lalaurie.

My evening with Gagnon and his wife proceeded as one might expect. Obviously, I pleaded with them to show me the diary, which they did only upon my promise not to reveal its contents to anyone. Of course, I would gladly accept any terms that they might proffer. I even would have paid them all of my savings, meager though it was, just to read through the diary once.

Gagnon brought the box down. The wood, old and cracked with age, could easily have been over 150 years old. The diary, with its antique binding and brittle, yellowed pages also hinted of antiquity. I immediately had no doubts as to its authenticity.

The manuscript was in a strong, clear schoolgirl hand; but I could not read it. The diary was written in French; and even though I had studied French for several years in high school, the writing was still a mystery to me: I could but make out just a few words. Gagnon explained to me that it was written in the Creole dialect. So, I immediately begged him to translate it for me.

Gagnon, with the assistance of his wife, complied, but the task took several days before completion. The girl was not a great writer; she was, perhaps, less than accomplished intellectually. Nevertheless, what unfolded from these pages was truly a magnificent find. I felt as if I were the first person to ever discover the answer to the riddle of the sphinx. For the first time in over a century and a half, the unique personality of Delphine Lalaurie was revealed.

Only some time later could I convince Gagnon and his wife to make the contents of the diary public. They agreed that I could use only the translations that I had written down on the sections of the diary that dealt directly with the events of Madame Lalaurie's personality and actions. They felt the other personal recollections of the girl should be kept private. I agreed without hesitation, for the other sections of the diary were the ordinary and typical rambling of the schoolgirl set and would shed no insight onto the main subject matter. Gagnon and his wife further stipulated that the actual diary itself and their own identities must remain a secret. I agreed that I would not attempt to publish any of the story without their complete approval of every word, letter and mark of punctuation.

What follows, then, is a retelling of the story of Madame Delphine Lalaurie. I have incorporated details and elements from the accounts by Cable and others as well as the many of the direct translations from the diary in order to present as complete a narrative as possible. Whatever errors or untruths that may exist in the following account I must take responsibility for.

Part II

"Today is my twelfth birthday. The day would have been good except for mother. Even Claudia was nice to me. Mother's husband, the doctor, gave me this diary. I think I should tell the story of this house, only the story is so horrible."

Camille Blanque June 5, 1833

The entry is short, the handwriting sketchy and tentative. Yet even here there are hints of what psychologists today might call a dysfunctional family. Camille Blanque, the daughter of Delphine Lalaurie and her second husband, suggests three possible conflicts in her family: first, she does not refer to her stepfather in friendly or familial terms. Even though she had been living the last eight years of her young life with Dr. Louis Lalaurie, whom Delphine had married in 1825, Camille is obviously distant from him. Second, the reference to Claudia Lopez suggests that Claudia is usually not "nice" to Camille. Claudia, the daughter from Delphine's first marriage, is several years older than Camille. In any other family situation, one might be tempted to dismiss Camille's comment as typical sibling rivalry against her half-sister. But given the facts in regards to Delphine Lalaurie's secret, one cannot help but wonder if Delphine's oldest daughter inherited one of her mother's less appealing qualities.

And what of Delphine Lalaurie herself? What did she do to ruin the twelfth birthday of her youngest daughter? Of course, there are far too many possibilities, whether accidental or intentional, to ponder. Only through thinly veiled passages in Camille's later entries does one begin to piece together a true picture of Delphine Lalaurie, a woman who is not insane but who is driven by her ego and her passion. But that is yet to be revealed.

Camille's situation appears to be a precarious one at best. She is living in a Creole household, a household run by many strict conventions of formality, where she is distant from her stepfather, at odds with her half-sister, and, as I will attempt to show later, emotionally humiliated by her own mother. What outlet did a young girl living in the French Quarter with a domineering mother and a passive stepfather have to express her emotion in those days? In her own household at 1140 Royal Street, where she was probably not only told, but ordered, to be seen and not heard, there was none. None, that is, until her twelfth birthday when her stepfather presented her with a diary as a gift, a more valuable gift than Louis Lalaurie could ever possibly realize, a gift that probably proved to be the salvation of young Camille Blanque.

Without the diary, Camille Blanque would probably have been unable to reveal the horrible secret that not only bothered her on a daily basis, but was also so much a part of the dark environment in which she lived.

"The screams were louder tonight than usual. Mother was in a bad mood. Certainly, the neighbors must have heard."

Camille Blanque August 10, 1833

"Somebody did hear. There was an awful argument today in the house, and I am glad of it. Our neighbor, Monsieur Montreuil, came to speak to mother and the doctor. Monsieur intimated that mother's actions were not only indecent and improper, but also cruel and evil. Is mother a demon? I never knew before that torturing slaves was an act of evil. I do pity our slaves, though."

Camille Blanque August 11, 1833

The entry for August 10 is not the first in which Camille frets about the screaming of the slaves. Although this activity is not a daily one, apparently Delphine Lalaurie would visit the attic at least two times a week. The visits usually coincided with a social event (a dinner, party, or, occasionally, a recital) at the Lalaurie household or at the house of one of their friends. Before such an event Madame Lalaurie would spend fifteen or twenty minutes in the attic with her whip. The barbarity that she would inflict upon the half a dozen slaves that she kept up there at various times also had the result of whipping Delphine herself into an emotional, or one might even be tempted to say sexual, intensity. At the dinner or party, Delphine would be calm and controlled; yet she would also shine with a fervent glow. She would, as numerous reports indicate, be positively radiant. She was also an accomplished flirt. Apparently, few men could resist her charms. Even other women found themselves captivated by the elegant Madame Lalaurie. At the parties husbands would swarm around Delphine; and the wives not only permitted such actions, they actually encouraged them. They wanted to be close to Delphine themselves, to be part of her circle. In short, Delphine Lalaurie had charisma. She was like a movie star to the people of old New Orleans; and such people do not want to believe, in fact, they refuse to believe, that their idol is actually presenting a very elegant facade, a lie, that is a cover for something hideous and monstrous underneath.

Somehow, Delphine Lalaurie's charms were connected to that horrible activity up in the attic. The night of August 10 marks a new phase in the development (the regression?) of Madame Lalaurie. The screams were, indeed, louder that night because Madame had grown tired of using the lash as the only means to excite her emotional fabric. She had then progressed, if one can actually call such evil activity progress, to using other implements of torture. The whip had begun to bore her, and Delphine constantly needed to be amused. On that particular night in question, in 1833, she had taken the fireplace poker from the hearth up into the attic with her. Even accustomed to the lash as they were, the slaves, in their poor, weakened, wretched, emaciated, lacerated state, could not silence their screams as their wicked torturess commanded them to do. Surely, the echoes of those screams reverberated down Royal Street all the way to the Custom House Road on the opposite end of the French Quarter. Whatever the Creoles were willing to overlook or ignore in the past, this time Madame Lalaurie had passed the limits of acceptability.

Monsieur Montreuil, a man well known in the city for his refinement and intellect, decided, in Creole fashion, to confront Madame Lalaurie directly. He thought he could reason with her. Delphine, on the other hand, had had dealings with Montreuil in the past; and she realized that he, somehow, was oblivious to her charms.

"You should not interfere in matters that are not of your concern," she defied Montreuil. Nor did Madame try to deny the charge. "My property will be handled as I see fit."

Delphine Lalaurie was stern, strong, and accustomed to having her way. Montreuil quickly saw in her eyes the beast that lurked within. "Let me speak to your husband," he demanded.

"He is right here." Madame smiled triumphantly as the doctor stepped into the parlor from an adjacent room.

"Dr. Lalaurie, I ask of you as a man in a position of respect and ... " Montreuil thought he would at least be able to talk some sense to Lalaurie, but Delphine quickly interrupted him.

"Dr. Lalaurie feels as I do, that this is none of your affair. Thank you for dropping by." With that, Delphine Lalaurie proudly stepped out of the room. The audience was at an end.

Montreuil, somewhat aghast, looked into Lalaurie's eyes for confirmation of what his wife had said. What Montreuil saw in those eyes was fear.

"It is best that you leave now," the doctor stammered, turning his eyes away from Montreuil in shame.

Montreuil realized that Lalaurie was nothing but a doll or toy belonging to his wife. Reason would certainly not avail in this situation. As he left, Montreuil said in a loud voice so Madame Lalaurie would surely hear, "This matter is far from settled."

And indeed it was not. For that very afternoon who should appear at the front door of 1140 Royal Street but the right honorable and esteemed Judge Canonge. Montreuil had made the formal complaint; and the judge, as a friend of the Lalaurie family, had decided that he himself would personally investigate the matter.

Canonge had been to that house on many occasions before, but always as a guest at the dinner or party that was taking place. This time the visit was for a different purpose, and Canonge steadied himself for the serious business at hand.

"Madame," Canonge began when Delphine Lalaurie herself opened the door, "I have come in response to hearing the most grievous of accusations."

"I know why you are here," Delphine whimpered with affected tears in her eyes. "The entire matter has become absurdly complicated. Please come in."

Judge Canonge, as Delphine Lalaurie well knew, was a man of a far different mold from that of Montreuil. The judge readily melted at the forlorn appearance that Delphine presented to him. His entire character and demeanor transformed instantly from that of the stern bureaucrat to that of the paternal comforter. The truth is that Canonge had long been an admirer of Madame Lalaurie's beauty, grace, and charms.

"Please let me get you a drink." Now the relationship shifted to that of guest and hostess. And the judge was extremely gratified and flattered to be waited upon by such a charming vision. Of course, even at her parties, Delphine had always insisted on serving the judge herself. He was far too important an individual to be waited on by a mere servant.

But why prolong the obvious? With teary eyes, Delphine explained how her mulatto manservant, Samuel, not herself (but of course), had punished a disobedient slave and had carried out that punishment to an unreasonable extreme. She told Canonge that she was most horrified over the unfortunate incident and had severely reprimanded her manservant. Then she complained how that horrible man, Montreuil, had stormed into her house, making wild accusations and had refused to hear the "truth" of the matter. All during her discourse, the judge patted her head with his comforting "There, there."

In short, the judge accepted Delphine's account of the incident, hugged her warmly as a comforter must, and assured her that she need not be troubled further over Montreuil's accusations.

"I had earlier concluded that mother is not a demon. She has never beat anyone except the slaves. Once she slapped Claudia, and she has punished me on two separate occasions. But that was more than two years ago, and I have learned since not to displease mother. Yet, today, I have doubts. Pauline, our little servant, is dead. Mother pushed her from the roof. But that is not what causes me to doubt. The look on mother's face did not seem human."

Camille Blanque November 2, 1833

The seed had been planted in Camille's mind by Monsieur Montreuil. Many acts of inhumanity and evil were commonly accepted in the 1830's; and growing up in the Lalaurie household, young Camille must have been taught that almost any action was considered appropriate when it came to the treatment of slaves. Yet even to this young girl who was growing up in an atmosphere of evil, the hypocrisy between what life presented and what the Church taught coupled with her own innate sense of goodness and evil could not help but produce the conclusion that her own mother was, indeed, a demon.

Camille would not fully realize this truth, though, until that traumatic event of 1833.

Pauline was not a very bright or competent girl, and Camille often tried to protect her from the outrages of her mother. Claudia, apparently, treated Pauline little better than did Madame Lalaurie. But Camille had formed a special relationship with Pauline. One might even say that Camille had feelings of tenderness and affection, if not love, for the little slave girl. The death of Pauline, then, was for Camille Blanque not just another indication of her mother's wickedness; the event would also be the loss of the one and only person who was dear to her life. Numerous tear stains cover these pages in Camille's diary.

The death occurred in this way. The servant who usually attended to the combing of Madame Lalaurie's hair was unavailable on that particular day in November, probably because she was recovering from a severe beating on the previous day. Camille's mother thus called on young Pauline to attend to this single task.

Pauline feared Madame Lalaurie more than she feared God or Satan; and as she tried to do what her mistress commanded, her hand trembled so much that she caused the hair of her mistress to become tangled into a knotted mess. Flames darted from Madame's eyes. Pauline knew what that look meant; and she fled, screaming, from her mistress's boudoir. Delphine Lalaurie became angrier and gave chase, grabbing a whip from some concealed nook in her room.

Pauline was possessed by terror. Madame was possessed by who knows what ungodly force. The pursuit was not a short one. Pauline scampered down the stairs to the courtyard with Madame quickly at her heels. The screams of Pauline attracted the attention of a neighbor, an elderly woman who had heard those kinds of screams on previous occasions. Pauline screamed not because of what Madame had done to her, but because she knew what actions Madame was capable of doing. As for Madame Delphine herself, she was a huntress, a wild feline, closing in on her prey. She saw or heeded nothing else. Despite her rage, Delphine Lalaurie did experience one other emotion during the hunt: pleasure.

Pauline circled and somehow found herself back in the house. She quickly ran up the flights of stairs to the top level of the house, opened a window, and clamored onto the roof. Madame was not to be eluded so easily. With whip in hand, she went onto the roof after the frightened child. Pauline now teetered on the edge of the roof. Madame approached, a smile on her lips. She knew that the hunt was almost over.

And then it was. But not in the way Madame imagined it. Pauline knew there was only one way to prevent the evil from harming her. She jumped. Madame peered over the ledge to view the small body smashed on the flagstones below. Although Madame Lalaurie was certainly disappointed about not capturing her prey, she had enjoyed the chase. This look of enjoyment was what Camille Blanque had observed in her mother. This look forced Camille to reassess who, or what, her mother was.

"Even mother could not satisfy the judge with a smile this time."

Camille Blanque November 3, 1833

Again the honorable Judge Canonge was forced to pay Madame Lalaurie a visit for reasons other than social. This time Creole society demanded action, and Judge Canonge had to act. He could not oppose all of society.

In L'Abbeille, a New Orleans newspaper, a brief entry indicates that several of Madame's slaves were taken from her and sold to other parties and that Madame Lalaurie was fined substantially for misconduct regarding said property. In actuality, the slaves never left the premises; and Madame Lalaurie never paid a single picayune. On paper all matters in connection to the mistress of 1140 Royal Street were handled and completed to the satisfaction of Creole society; and Judge Canonge was applauded for carrying out his duty in such an expedient and exemplary fashion.

Judge Canonge, however, continued to be friends with the Lalauries; and he even attended a dinner at their house the very next week.

"Mother beat me today. Since today is Christmas, I went to the attic to bring the slaves some food. Mother had not been up there since Pauline's death. I thought matters were better now. They are not. A terrible nightmare exists up in the attic. The bodies of our slaves are covered with sores, and the sores are infested with maggots. I had walked into hell. I started screaming. I could not help it. Mother came up first and dragged me down by the hair. Then she beat me with a switch."

Camille Blanque December 25, 1833

Madame Delphine Lalaurie had ruled her passions, for a brief time. She knew that she could not push Creole society too far. And she had promised the judge that no more complaints would be forthcoming. She owed him at least that much. Still, like the proverbial leopard who cannot change its spots, the mistress of 1140 Royal Street had only been postponing the inevitable. When her own daughter's screaming began to create what she feared to be another dreadful scene between herself and her neighbors, the spark kindled within her; and this time she lashed out on her own daughter. The rage was uncontrollable; and only after taking that rage out on her daughter did Madame feel calm, relaxed, and satisfied. Delphine Lalaurie knew that she could no longer restrain herself from pursuing the activity that was so vital to her nature.

As for the slaves up in the attic, they, all of that time since Pauline's death, had been chained and unmoved. They were wasting away. Madame did permit Samuel to bring them water and leftover scraps from the meals; but Samuel was often negligent in that chore, and Madame did not appear to fret over his dereliction of duty. As long as the slaves were too weak to scream and make a commotion, Madame was satisfied.

Young Camille Blanque had indeed become witness to a scene that not even Dante, who had envisioned multiple nightmares which he wrote about in his literary depiction of hell, could have imagined the horror that existed up in the Lalaurie attic. Poor Camille would heal physically and soon forget the cuts and bruises that were inflicted upon her by her very own mother, but she would never again have a single night of sound sleep. The vision of the attic would appear in her dreams night after night until, perhaps, her own death many decades later would allow her to experience finally a restful sleep.

"I was thinking about mother. When she beat me yesterday, she trembled. But she did not tremble because she was cold or afraid. She trembled with joy."

Camille Blanque December 26, 1833

This is the most revealing entry from Camille's diary in regards to assessing her mother's character. Delphine Lalaurie whipped and tortured her slaves out of sheer enjoyment. The pleasure she received might be described as some sort of abnormal psychological tendency that, perhaps, doctors today would attempt to cure with various chemicals of sorts.

I cannot help but wonder, though, if the pleasure that Delphine Lalaurie experienced might also be described as sexual. The trembling that young Camille Blanque describes appears to be more like that of sensual ecstasy, or orgasm.

One must remember that Madame Lalaurie was living in a time of stricter social conventions and greater propriety than now. And what of her husband, her three husbands? Louis Lalaurie was a timid soul and shrank under the authority of his own wife. Only with the greatest of difficulty can one envision him as providing the sexual satisfaction that Madame Delphine craved. Her previous two husbands, both much older than she, may also have been lacking in that respect.

The flirtatious nature of Delphine Lalaurie also should be taken into account. The effect that she had upon Creole society, both male and female, is largely a matter of record. Camille's own diary entries confirm the sensual, or perhaps even sexual, hold that Delphine had over others.

Yet, where such flirtations were considered acceptable and harmless in the 1830's Creole world, having an affair would have been scandalous. Delphine Lalaurie thus required another outlet to satisfy her sexual needs.

Perhaps the first time she had whipped a slave, her motive may have been a fairly typical one given by the slaveholders at that time: the slave was not working fast enough or hard enough, or the slave had looked at the master with an expression that the master construed to be contempt or disrespect.

In any event, Delphine Lalaurie, some years before Camille Blanque began her diary, had whipped a slave and had discovered that such an act produced a feeling within her that she could experience in no other way and from no other source. The sensation that she had experienced on that first occasion had to be repeated. So, she began to beat her slaves whether they were unruly or not. Soon, that desire for pleasure became an obsession. And by 1833 that obsession had become out of control.

"Mother has returned to her old ways. Now, however, the slaves no longer cry out. They do whimper. Perhaps I am the only one who hears them. The neighbors no longer complain."

Camille Blanque January 22, 1834

"I hear crying at night from upstairs, from up there. The crying is soft, muted. I fear that some of the slaves are dead."

Camille Blanque February 8, 1834

As later events would reveal, none of the slaves had died that February although some were just on the brink of death. As Camille's diary reveals, Delphine Lalaurie returned to her practice of whipping the slaves. Her tension relieved in that odd and cruel manner, Madame became far more gracious and generous to her family and friends. And she also became more flirtatious than ever.

The systematic starving that Samuel had inflicted on his fellow slaves served a purpose other than sheer torture. They had become too weak to scream out when they were whipped or beaten by their mistress.

Madame Delphine could now engage in her favorite pastime without the interference of Monsieur Montreuil or anyone else.

Like before, Madame soon tired of using the lash as the sole instrument of her terror. She required novelty. And then an idea occurred to her. She wondered why she had not thought of it before, the idea seemed so obvious. In her husband's office were a number of medical instruments, scalpels, picks, and such, that had always fascinated Madame Lalaurie. The tools started to disappear, much to Doctor Lalaurie's amazement. Perhaps Delphine told her husband that one of the servants took them. In any event, the doctor had no recourse but to replace them. And Madame Delphine Lalaurie began to experiment in new methods of stripping and lacerating human flesh.

These events would continue to occur unknown to all, even to Camille Blanque at that time (although she does express a theory regarding the missing medical implements), with the exception of Samuel, the crafty mulatto servant, and of the poor, unfortunate victims of Madame's caprice. That these victims did not die in the ensuing months borders on the miraculous, although a cruel miracle it would certainly be.

"I heard a hellish scream last night. Then, all was utterly silent. I have not heard any other noises for many weeks now. I would have thought they were all dead by this time, but Samuel continues to bring food and water up to them every once in a while."

Camille Blanque April 7, 1834

The reader must certainly realize that for a slave, chained, weakened, starved, emaciated, and dying, to be able to produce one loud final cry of pain, of anguish, the cause must indeed be a horrendous one. Even Madame Lalaurie was surprised that the slave was capable of this type of outburst. Then the slave sunk into what was, one may hope, a blissful unconsciousness. He had no more energy to remain awake and cry out a second time.

The cause for this cry of pain (or cry for mercy) was Madame's latest and most evil experiment yet. She had been amazed, during earlier experiments, at how easily the doctor's scalpel could cut through cartilage and even bone. Due to her madness or her evil or whatever dark force permeated her being, Delphine Lalaurie conceived the ghastly notion that what she wanted most was to know the thoughts of her victims. To accomplish that, she believed, she needed to see their actual brains.

So, she embarked on her latest mad or evil experiment; and, somehow, some way, the slave managed to survive the ordeal. Madame Delphine was like a master surgeon. Yet even though the victim of this experiment was on the verge of death with barely a shred of life within him, the pain of the experience and the horror of her intent were so intense that he was able to produce a scream that reverberated throughout the house and was indeed heard by the good doctor and by Claudia as well as by Camille. But all three of them knew better than to cross Delphine Lalaurie.

The neighbor widow next door also awoke that night upon hearing a terrible shriek. But when she sat up in bed, there was utter silence. Perhaps, she thought, I have been dreaming. She sat up in bed for hours, listening; but she heard nothing more that night.

Pausing for a sufficient length of time to see if the slave would revive or if the neighbors would complain, Madame proceeded with her experiment. She was elated with the results. She believed that she found what she had been looking for. And the slave, somehow, survived.

"Dora knows about her grandson; she knows what mother did to him. She may be old and weak and chained in the kitchen, but I see defiance in her eyes. She has been an obedient slave all of these years, even with mother's abuse. But I think that will no longer be true. Maybe she will poison the food."

Camille Blanque April 9, 1834

Camille was right about the expression in Dora's eyes, but not about the poison. Dora was the aged cook for the Lalauries. Yet, despite her age, Madame Delphine thought it prudent (or maybe it was just her whim) to keep old Dora in chains. Dora could not go anywhere. There was no place for her to go. But Delphine Lalaurie was correct in fearing the old cook. Dora had a hidden strength despite her frail condition. For years she had suffered the cruelties and indignities lashed upon her by an inhuman mistress. She had the strength to survive all of that. But she did not have the strength, the patience, to wait and watch idly as her mistress inflicted even greater malice upon her family and fellow sufferers. She knew what was happening in the attic. She felt that now was the time to put a stop to all the madness, and the means to do so was right at her fingertips.

"We are no longer living on Royal Street. Our house is gone, and our neighbors will not allow us to return to New Orleans. I am writing this in Mandeville, from across the lake. Soon we will be moving again. North? Somewhere? I don't know. I do think, though, that the horror is over. I pray that it is over."

Camille Blanque April 11, 1834

Whatever her philosophical musings may have been, the idea occurred to Dora, finally, that death, even if it meant spending an eternity in flames such as those within the oven, would be far more preferable than spending another minute within the Lalaurie house. So, Dora removed a small burning ember from the stove and set it within a wooden pantry. The flames leaped up at once, to Dora's surprise and pleasure, and within a matter of seconds the flames were scorching the adjacent wall and climbing up to the ceiling. For perhaps the first time in years, a smile appeared on Dora's lips.

Panic immediately ensued. People yelling, shouting, running. The shouts went up and down the streets. Soon members of the volunteer fire department and half of the citizenry of New Orleans were there to help or to watch.

Throughout the entire proceeding Madame Delphine Lalaurie remained cool and in control. She directed some of the citizens who had come to her aid to remove the valuable furniture and other possessions while others worked furiously to put out the fire.

"What about your slaves?" someone, perhaps Monsieur Montreuil, asked. "Are they still in the house?"

Oh, yes, the slaves, thought Madame Lalaurie. She had forgotten all about them. In her estimation, there were more important belongings to rescue from the inferno. "The slaves are fine," she answered.

Not believing her, Montreuil spoke to Judge Canonge that he feared that there were slaves in the house. Canonge questioned Dr. Lalaurie about this, but the doctor just quivered and shook his head. So Canonge, Montreuil, and perhaps one or two others stormed into the fiery quarters. They found a locked door on the third floor. Montreuil hurried down and asked the doctor for the keys, but he said that his wife had them. Madame Delphine refused Montreuil, again repeating that all of the slaves were out of the house. Montreuil rushed back upstairs, and with the help of the others, they broke through the locked door.

Inside that third story room they witnessed a sight of horror that filled their eyes with tears. Slaves with chains and spiked collars were trapped and bound to the walls, breathing the deadly smoke. The slaves were naked and covered with old scabs and fresh wounds. Maggots and other insects were seen scattering in all directions, including into the naked flesh of some of the more hideously lacerated slaves. The most hideous sight of all was that of Dora's grandson, the scab-encrusted hole on his head still gruesomely visible from Madame Lalaurie's sinister experiment.

These and other slaves from within the house were taken outside. All of the slaves, including Dora, who was still chained up in the kitchen while Canonge and Montreuil were upstairs, were saved.

The people who had crowded around the house, at first full of pity for the brave Madame Lalaurie, suddenly changed in emotion upon sight of the tortured slaves. The demon that was Madame Lalaurie was now a matter of public knowledge. The citizens were outraged. They demanded immediate restitution. The helpful neighbors had now become an angry mob.

But Madame Lalaurie remained calm. She knew that once Canonge and Montreuil discovered the slaves on the third floor, she would not be able to remain in New Orleans. Unobserved, she and her mulatto servant, Samuel, made their way around the house to the stables and to the coach.

Before the crowd had time to react, they witnessed Madame Delphine's coach racing up Hospital Street (now called Governor Nicholl's Road) to Bayou Road, which wound its way through the surrounding plantations and swampy countryside to the lake. From there Madame Delphine and Samuel sailed to Mandeville.

Once the crowd had collected their wits and realized that, indeed, Madame Lalaurie was escaping, they started to give chase. However, it was too late. That moment of surprise and indecision was long enough to allow the evil slave mistress a chance to escape.

In Mandeville, Madame Delphine joined her husband and two daughters, who had escaped by some other route. Meanwhile, the crowd, not willing to allow their thirst for vengeance to remain unquenched, turned their anger and their zeal toward the furnishings of the house, the very ones that they had rescued from flames just seconds before. Piano, paintings, sofas, tables, china, silver, and everything else were soon demolished into an untidy pile of rubble. Such destruction did not quite satisfy the people. But Madame Lalaurie was gone. There was nothing else to do.

Knowledge of Madame Lalaurie's life after April 1834 is rather limited. Apparently, she made her way from Mandeville to New York, and from there to Paris. Perhaps she was recognized, perhaps not. In any event, she was never brought to justice for the evil she had committed.

There is one report that in 1837 Madame Delphine Lalaurie was killed in a cruel way. Unfortunately, this report cannot be confirmed by Camille's diary since the entry for April 11 is the last.

The story, as I have heard it, states that on one fine spring day in 1837, Madame Lalaurie and a group of other fashionable members of Parisian society set out on a boar hunt. Delphine somehow became separated from the others; and, on foot, she faced a deadly, ferocious boar by herself. Somehow, she slipped; and her gun went off, the bullet flying harmlessly into the trees. The boar now had its chance and rushed at Madame Lalaurie, its hot tusks, dripping with saliva, fatally ripping Madame's mid-section. Perhaps Delphine Lalaurie did not die immediately but lingered on for some while in pain, amazed, staring at herself and at the savage beast as it approached for a second strike.

If this report is true, then perhaps there is some justice in the universe after all. The woman who lived inflicting cruelty and pain thus died in a cruel and painful manner. That would make sense if there is any sense in the universe.

What of young Camille Blanque? That, too, is a mystery, a secret that has not yet been told. I like to imagine that she grew up in Paris, married, had children, and lived a normal existence much unlike that which had marred her childhood. Yet, as most of us know, the dark secrets of the past cannot be so easily forgotten; and Camille Blanque's dark secrets most likely plagued both her dreams and her conscious moments throughout her entire life.

PART III

The observant reader must have become aware far before this point that a major discrepancy exist between Gagnon's account of how he received the diary and the actual dating of the diary itself. If the diary had actually been hidden in the wall just prior to the day of the momentous fire that caused all of the Lalauries to flee from their home, then how is it that the diary could contain pages dated after that event? Obviously, it could not. Moreover, I am positive that Gagnon knew that such a major flaw in his story would become readily apparent.

I had been aware of this discrepancy from the very first night that Gagnon and Marguerite had shown me the diary. However, some instinct prevented me from questioning Gagnon about this particular; and I am now glad that I had refrained from mentioning it at that time.

Logic dictates that only two other possibilities exist: one, somebody, perhaps the writer herself, had placed the box with the diary into the wall some months after Madame Lalaurie's disappearance from New Orleans; or, two, Gagnon or his wife received the diary from some other source. The first possibility is a remote one at best. I doubted the plausibility of it; but, like a good detective, I did not want to discount any theory without proof. One piece of evidence that does lead to its dismissal is that, upon examining the telephone directories for the 1960's, I discovered that Gagnon and his wife never lived in the French Quarter. Even in the sixties they were living in the same residence where they now currently reside.

So, I assume that Gagnon or his wife received the diary from some other source. The most obvious source would be the family, the direct descendants of the two daughters born to Delphine Lalaurie. Unfortunately, the records available on the Lalaurie family after the 1830's are lost or hidden.

My curiosity getting the better of me, I decided to play the snoop and see what I could discover about Gagnon and his wife. Pouring through hundreds of birth certificates, death certificates, marriage licenses, and other such documents, I could find nothing unusual about Gagnon. He is descended from a well-established Creole family that had been living in the New Orleans area for nearly two centuries.

My search on Marguerite, however, did bring to light one interesting fact. One of her paternal ancestors was born in Paris in 1841. Although the name of Lalaurie does not appear in the records, I believe, or maybe I am only engaging in a flight of fancy, that this ancestor was the son of the writer of the diary and was the grandson of Delphine Lalaurie. Thus, Marguerite Gagnon herself is a direct descendant of the infamous mistress of Royal Street.

I admit that I have no other proof to substantiate this belief, and I have shown these pages (except for this last paragraph) to Gagnon and Marguerite themselves. Neither of them commented on my surmises, and both have given me their approval to publish this story in its entirety. Thus, I must leave my readers with one secret revealed and a new unrevealed one substituted in its place.

Copyright 2003

R. A. Albano

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