: From an unpublished book on the family’s history, written by Hetty Louise Dufour DuPlessis (1867-1933). Courtesy of the DuPlessis Family libraries.
“The DuPlessis mansion is an oddity, in every way, much like our family. An unusual mixture of Gothic and Georgian architecture originally designed by my Great Uncle Hiram DuPlessis, and constructed over a ten year period from 1877 to 1887. I was fortunate to see it happen almost from the beginning, and I urge you to believe that it is an engrossing story!
The parcel of land, then on the outskirts of Jefferson City was bought by our ancestors, Jean-Phillipe and his brother Reynaud DuPlessis in 1854. Long before Uptown, as it came to be known, was developed. Family legend states that the brothers were both hiking through the area before dawn, when they were struck by the first light of sunrise. They had a vision of a grand mansion on that spot, and rushed back into town to lay claim to the land. Soon, they both took wives and built a small home here, guided by the sunrise hitting this spot every morning.
We are the descendants of Jean-Phillipe and Eleanora. Reynaud and his wife Filena left New Orleans suddenly before the Civil War, and never returned. It is believed by the neighbors and a few dissidents in the extended family that Reynaud, as the younger brother, was afraid of being conscripted to fight for the South and fled, too embarrassed to return. But, our beloved Great Uncle Hiram has always said that Reynaud left the States on a family mission, and someday his children will return. One can only wonder!
“Our home is known for the unique herringbone brickwork across the facade, an innovation by my late father, Julius DuPlessis. It is also known as ‘the big house on the little hill’, the land having been built up to avoid some long-forgotten flood or some other natural disaster, as I recall. In truth, I was only a child when the story was told, and all who would know have long since passed on. Though, it has been noted that, despite every hurricane and flood, the neighborhood has never taken water. Intriguing!
“It is also the only house where the front door faces due east. Every other house in Audubon Place faces each other across the streets, either northwest or southeast-the nightmares of the compass! Through some happy accident, even through the unchecked growth of the live oaks and development, the first light of morning shines directly onto the front door of the house, illuminating everything around it with golden sparkling light for several minutes before fading away. Always has, and did when the properties around us were being bought up and built upon.
“Naturally, the new folks were jealous.
“By 1920, a generation of new wealth upstarts, war profiteers, erstwhile carpetbaggers and lawyers had built up their own mansions, calling it Audubon Place and fencing out the rest of the City. Like feudal lords, admission to the street must be approved by a guard in a ridiculous little shack. They filled the newly paved street with a well-ordered opulence. Each one facing another in neat, regimented fashion. As if in constant watch for any deviation or new ostentation. Our oddly shaped lot and even odder mansion atop it was an affront to the well-ordered lives they had constructed around themselves. An insult, really. How often were Mother and I drubbed by these people? They, either refusing to acknowledge our presence, or worse confronting us directly on the street like fishwives, braying their dismay at our beautiful home-the first home in the neighborhood, I am often wont to reply. A home that became the subject of discord at their supper tables. And they were not happy at all. Especially since our family didn’t care one way or another what any of them thought. We were here first. They were drawn to us, not the other way around.
“In 1923, to appease these dreadful people who threatened to have our mansion condemned and demolished if something wasn’t done, Father and his brother Ivor created a kind of false facade built along the front of the property, consisting of a low brick wall (again, with the herringbone patterning. As with most things, Father would only be told so much,) and cast iron trellising now grown through with carefully trimmed wisteria and ligustrum. It is also trained to grow along a new high fence on the Freret St. side, surrounding the property. When fully grown, the facade will completely obscure the entire house from both streets.”
During the 20th century, the mansion became so well hidden that the children and grandchildren of the neighbors eventually forgot there was another mansion in Audubon Place. Which, it seems, is what they wanted. And, the DuPlessis family preferred it that way. Despite their repeated issues, the presence of wealthy neighbors in a closed community was a welcome buffer from the world. The natural transience of the universities supplied them with anonymity every few years. It allowed the family, over generations, to not only build the mansion’s grounds, but also the family fortunes. More than 70% of the entire City of New Orleans is either owned, co-owned, managed, or controlled by the DuPlessis family and all their many businesses and conglomerates. Even their own wealthy neighbors don’t know they bought their land from the family, and their business offices and locations pay rent to them as well. Most of the residents in the City pay rent to the family in some way. A veritable army of accountants and bankers work their entire careers on the DuPlessis’ fortunes, all very handsomely paid. And all controlled from this mansion at the tiny, perfectly manicured hands of Bitsie DuPlessis.
Bitsie herself is not a true DuPlessis. Rather, she is the ex-wife of the last of the DuPlessis line, Ivan. Or, she would be his ex-wife had Ivan not gone missing nearly six years ago before the divorce could go through. Still just over a year away from finally having Ivan declared legally dead, she is the sole agent and executor of the vast DuPlessis fortune and matron of the family manse.
Hetty continues.
“Another unusual feature of the mansion is the sunken first floor. Built down into the land that raises the mansion, to enter one must first climb up an ornate staircase to the front door. Inside, one is greeted by an entry hall that opens out into an open, circular space in the center of the mansion with three staircases branching out into the rest of the house: on the left, the staircase going down to the first floor living rooms and kitchens; on the right, a staircase leading up to the third floor rooms, and before one, a third, shorter cantilevered suspended staircase leading to the semi-detached second floor study. The study was built by Jean Pierre for himself. Family tradition says the head of the household is given the only key.
All three staircases are made from gilded iron lace with mahogany wood treads and banisters. Around the doors to the study, two large, thick windows framed with cast iron flood the area with light. From those windows, you can see the glass roof of a solarium on the first floor, also built into the center of the mansion.
This was done according to Great Uncle Hiram DuPlessis’ original plans. Though I have never seen them, the entire first floor of the mansion is said to be supported on large iron beams; presumably because the pavers are so heavy. It is always feared in New Orleans that we shall all sink into the swamps one day.
“Down the stairs to the left you go, through a paneled passageway that leads into the large living room and dining area. The living room is paneled in an unusual wood called guyican. Imported, it is believed, from the Caribbean sometime in late 1872. Its burnt umber color compliments the mahogany bookcases that line the room, as well as the curiously sleek white marble mantlepiece framing the large fireplace. It is the only item in the house that can be considered spartan. Only the wall with the fireplace has been left open. It is bare, save for the enticing antique lead crystal and elegant gilded iron lace sconces on either side of the mantle, and a large gilded antique mirror that nearly fills the space. Equally curious is the luxurious, unusually thick slate floor. In the streaming light from the solarium the dark slate becomes a deep purple. Unique in the entire state, slate is said to have been mined and cut in Colombia. Each tile is so heavy, it took over two years for all of them to arrive and be installed. On the left side of the fireplace wall there is a small staircase to a private office, purportedly created and hidden by Uncle Reynaud during construction. On the right, opposite the entryway is a large grand dining room that looks out onto the solarium, paneled again in guyican, and featuring a mural on the ceiling depicting the arrival of the first DuPlessis on Louisiana soil in 1713, painted by a young artist named Alferez.”
Atop the tiles in the center of the room is a gold and white braided rug bearing the family crest of the DuPlessis family. The legacy of Bitsie’s blessedly dead mother in law, the imperious Alice DuPlessis. Luxurious brown leather couches border the rug on either side, fitted with thick lead glass coffee tables that stretch the length of the sofas. On one side closest to the entryway, a single overstuffed leather chair that doesn’t match anything else in the house. It is Bitsie’s big chair; the last vestige of her life before she became a DuPlessis. The big chair sits up against one of the two columns that separate the living room from the breakfast area, which looks out onto the solarium. Beyond the breakfast area are the kitchens and service rooms, the exclusive purview of Schramm. This part of the house is the only part that has been renovated, albeit minorly, to accommodate modern appliances. The laundry room opens out into the three-car garage, also below ground and guarded by a large bespoke electric door made of thick planks of live oak and iron fittings. In Hetty’s time, the garage was the carriage house and her father’s workshop. His workbenches still line the walls of the garage, and an imposing wooden chest of his special tools sits in the corner: the lock that seals it shut possessing no keyhole, the wood too thick to be drilled or chipped away…This is My New Orleans.
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