Lights
Lights
I separated this from the Vesuvius thread since it happened in another life.
At the age of approximately 23, I set about taking a placee. A placee for those who haven’t heard the term before, were young ladies of colour who served as a mistress to wealthy white Creole gentlemen. As my family was of some prominence, I received an invitation to a ball given by the Societe Cordon Bleu, an association of wealthy and prominent families which presented their daughters for placage at balls which would be roughly approximate to debutante balls.
Those who did not have my advantages of birth and family fortune would attend a Quadroon Ball where young ladies of less prominent families were presented. Many of the families of breeding and wealth looked down at the Quadroon Balls—it was not unusual for men to persist in pursuit of young ladies who had made their rejection of the men in question quite clear. What made the balls even more outré in our view was that many of the men who had the nerve to treat the young ladies thus were Northerners.
The rules of the balls, be they Cordon Bleu or Quadroon, required that if a gentleman was to be rejected, he was not to persist in his attentions, but was to seek another young lady. Any disrespect towards the young ladies was swiftly punished by ejection. Most of us did not look down on placage as by my time, it had been an institution in New Orleans for over sixty years. Most of the young ladies who would be presented that year had been born into families in which placage had been practiced for two or three generations. It was considered completely respectable for a young man to take a placee until he married. Unofficially, many of the liaisons continued even after the gentleman had married. A very few never married and remained with their placees…sometimes maintaining a separate residence for appearances sake.
I can see myself looking in the mirror before setting out. I am wearing a black frock coat with velvet lapels, a silver brocade vest, black cravat. Along with a top hat, I have a walking stick of ebony with a rather ornate silver head. I am slender, just a bit of a cast to my complexion from Spanish blood—my mother’s side—curly blue-black hair and large, dark brown eyes. Contrary to the style popular amongst my class, I am clean-shaven. I have simply never cared for facial hair so I have never cultivated it.
After being schooled in France I have returned home to work in the office my father maintains in the City to sell produce from our plantation. I have a private apartment on St. Peter St. not far from Jackson Square—closer to Canal Street than to Esplanade, the streets which border the French Quarter on two sides. The other borders are the Mississippi River and somewhat parallel to it, Rampart St. I am most fond of this part of New Orleans as to me, the Vieux Carre as we call it, is the part of the City which is closest to France. Although I do read and speak Creole, it is a matter of pride that I speak real French as well.
After arriving at the ball and handing in my invitation, I enter a large room where young ladies are seated in chairs, all hoping to be chosen this night. It is obvious with what love and care they have been dressed by their mothers—every frock is of the latest style. They resemble a field of flowers—every shade and colour and fabric is represented. Blue, green, rose, lilac, purple, wine, deep golds, sage, brown, red, silver…the variety seems endless.
Then, I see her. She is seated in a chair, dressed in a gown of deep rose taffeta and gauze. The hem has been finished off in silver ribbon that has been folded so that the hem is a series of points. The ruffle which hangs down from the off-the-shoulder neckline has been embroidered in delicate silver thread. Around a tiny waist is a wide sash tied in back in a perfect bow, long streamers handing down in back. Around her neck is a delicate necklace set with dark rose stones, a necklace as delicate as the young lady herself. Her skin is a very light cafe au lait. Her face is a heart shape, her hair drawn back from a center part to accent a widow's peak. She has large, slightly-slanted nearly-black eyes high cheekbones, a straight nose and full, rosy lips. Her hair is a very deep mahogany colour, and is drawn up in back in a silver snood. I am enchanted at this first sight of her.
At the age of approximately 23, I set about taking a placee. A placee for those who haven’t heard the term before, were young ladies of colour who served as a mistress to wealthy white Creole gentlemen. As my family was of some prominence, I received an invitation to a ball given by the Societe Cordon Bleu, an association of wealthy and prominent families which presented their daughters for placage at balls which would be roughly approximate to debutante balls.
Those who did not have my advantages of birth and family fortune would attend a Quadroon Ball where young ladies of less prominent families were presented. Many of the families of breeding and wealth looked down at the Quadroon Balls—it was not unusual for men to persist in pursuit of young ladies who had made their rejection of the men in question quite clear. What made the balls even more outré in our view was that many of the men who had the nerve to treat the young ladies thus were Northerners.
The rules of the balls, be they Cordon Bleu or Quadroon, required that if a gentleman was to be rejected, he was not to persist in his attentions, but was to seek another young lady. Any disrespect towards the young ladies was swiftly punished by ejection. Most of us did not look down on placage as by my time, it had been an institution in New Orleans for over sixty years. Most of the young ladies who would be presented that year had been born into families in which placage had been practiced for two or three generations. It was considered completely respectable for a young man to take a placee until he married. Unofficially, many of the liaisons continued even after the gentleman had married. A very few never married and remained with their placees…sometimes maintaining a separate residence for appearances sake.
I can see myself looking in the mirror before setting out. I am wearing a black frock coat with velvet lapels, a silver brocade vest, black cravat. Along with a top hat, I have a walking stick of ebony with a rather ornate silver head. I am slender, just a bit of a cast to my complexion from Spanish blood—my mother’s side—curly blue-black hair and large, dark brown eyes. Contrary to the style popular amongst my class, I am clean-shaven. I have simply never cared for facial hair so I have never cultivated it.
After being schooled in France I have returned home to work in the office my father maintains in the City to sell produce from our plantation. I have a private apartment on St. Peter St. not far from Jackson Square—closer to Canal Street than to Esplanade, the streets which border the French Quarter on two sides. The other borders are the Mississippi River and somewhat parallel to it, Rampart St. I am most fond of this part of New Orleans as to me, the Vieux Carre as we call it, is the part of the City which is closest to France. Although I do read and speak Creole, it is a matter of pride that I speak real French as well.
After arriving at the ball and handing in my invitation, I enter a large room where young ladies are seated in chairs, all hoping to be chosen this night. It is obvious with what love and care they have been dressed by their mothers—every frock is of the latest style. They resemble a field of flowers—every shade and colour and fabric is represented. Blue, green, rose, lilac, purple, wine, deep golds, sage, brown, red, silver…the variety seems endless.
Then, I see her. She is seated in a chair, dressed in a gown of deep rose taffeta and gauze. The hem has been finished off in silver ribbon that has been folded so that the hem is a series of points. The ruffle which hangs down from the off-the-shoulder neckline has been embroidered in delicate silver thread. Around a tiny waist is a wide sash tied in back in a perfect bow, long streamers handing down in back. Around her neck is a delicate necklace set with dark rose stones, a necklace as delicate as the young lady herself. Her skin is a very light cafe au lait. Her face is a heart shape, her hair drawn back from a center part to accent a widow's peak. She has large, slightly-slanted nearly-black eyes high cheekbones, a straight nose and full, rosy lips. Her hair is a very deep mahogany colour, and is drawn up in back in a silver snood. I am enchanted at this first sight of her.
