Some arrivals tiptoe in unnoticed. Others perfume the air with scandal and Louis Vuitton leather. It was a Wednesday when the air in the Crescent City turned a little thicker, a little sweeter—like powdered sugar on a beignet. Word traveled fast through the gilded halls of Le Pavillon: Margaux Deveraux, the scandalously single heiress to a Texas oil fortune, had arrived. With matching Louis Vuitton trunks and a trail of rumors longer than a St. Charles streetcar, she checked into Suite 730—yes, the one with the clawfoot tub and the rumored ghost who only appears during thunderstorms. And then she asked for candles.
The Arrival of Miss Margaux
Margaux was the kind of guest who turned heads and stirred mint juleps without lifting a finger. The bellmen speculated she was in town to “forget a fiancé,” while the front desk whispered about a hush-hush rendezvous with a jazz musician from Frenchmen Street. Either way, when she ordered two Sazeracs before noon and requested extra candles for a “mood,” Le Pavillon knew: something delicious was about to unfold.
Whispers often travel faster than the St. Charles streetcar, especially when the gentleman in question has eyes like a storm and a taste for absinthe. Enter Julian LeClair. Tall, tailored, and with eyes the color of stormy Lake Pontchartrain, he was spotted sipping absinthe at Bar 1803 just an hour after Margaux’s arrival. He claimed to be a food critic from Paris, but his accent was equal parts Creole and charm school. He asked too many questions about the hotel’s secret passageways—and none about the gumbo. Until he walked into the lobby.
By evening, they “accidentally” bumped into each other beneath the crystal chandelier. What followed was a dance of looks, laughs, and late-night PB&Js delivered to her suite—with one extra napkin and his initials etched in sugar. The next morning, housekeeping found a single black glove in the Versailles Ballroom—and it wasn’t theirs.
There is nothing quite like a masquerade to test the limits of decorum, and fate is rarely polite in New Orleans. Friday night brought a masquerade gala. Margaux appeared in a feathered mask and red silk gown, drawing gasps from old money and new trouble alike. Julian? He wore a tuxedo that whispered “borrowed” and a smirk that screamed “danger.” They danced under the dome until a thunderstorm rolled in, just as the legend foretold. At precisely 12:03 AM, the chandelier flickered.
Some say the ghostly lady of Suite 730 appeared at the top of the staircase, watching. Moments later, Julian vanished. Some swear he escaped through the Prohibition tunnel; others say they saw him on the rooftop with a stolen bottle of bourbon. Margaux? Found at the plunge pool, barefoot, humming a Billie Holiday tune, as if nothing had happened.
The morning after a scandal always tastes better with mimosas—and perhaps just a dash of mischief. By Sunday brunch—where Bijoux’s Bloody Mary bar was working overtime—Margaux was radiant, sipping mimosas and charming a captive audience. The gossip burned hotter than Tabasco on a crawfish tail, and her next move was about to leave the entire lobby buzzing.
She tipped the valet with a wink and a room key (not hers), then vanished into a white town car. But not before leaving a handwritten note at the front desk addressed only to “J.” It read: “Catch me if you can, mon amour. But don’t use your real name next time.” And that, dear reader, is how Le Pavillon added yet another scandal to its gilded book of mystery.
