I was wearing an ankle-length embroidered cotton dress, and for this visit, I'd put my hair up into a chignon. As soon as I set foot in the elegant foyer I moved apart from the group, listening distractedly to the explanations so that I could experience this lovely history by myself and in my own way. Lost in my thoughts, I traveled back in time, admiring the valances, the bronze-trimmed cornices. I lingered in the salon where the ladies of that era would embroider, doing tapestry work as they ate rare sweets. I imagined I could hear the rustle of their crinolines and taffeta… I was dreaming! On the mantle was a porcelain clock that, after marking the hours of countless years, was now still. Happy hours, sad hours, painful hours… Its hands showed three o'clock. Why had it stopped just then?

Saddened, I continued my journey. A long photograph-lined corridor brought me to a sitting room that adjoined a bedroom. The walls were covered with pink wallpaper imprinted with lilacs. It had certainly been a girl's room. I suddenly glimpsed myself in a mirror and was jarred back to reality. My eyes traveled around the room and came to rest on a yellowed photograph. I held out a hesitant hand and looked closely at that smile, those eyes… had she been happy? For what occasion had she worn this straw hat? Her past belonged to her alone, and I meditatively replaced the frame on the table next to an album that I did not open.

A glance at my watch brought me back to the present… but as I came down the grand staircase, I wandered back again in time and imagined myself to be Scarlett O'Hara! Alas, no one was waiting for me as my sandals reached the worn carpet of the hall. I rejoined the guests in the ballroom. The heat from the fire in the fireplace chased away the chills that I could not conceal. I felt as if I could hear the bullets whizzing past my ears.

The owner was reaching the end of his remarks on the house. I felt like a naughty pupil arriving late for class. But being a perfect gentleman, he pretended not to notice. Music, as if from an invisible orchestra, washed over the room. Divining my romantic spirit, he invited me to dance. Then, too soon, dinner was announced. A dark-skinned woman, in a dark dress and starched apron, held open the door to the dining room.

How beautiful it was! The room's décor was breathtaking, the whole effect magnificent. The table had been set for a grand party. The plates were laid on a lace cloth and their pattern gleamed. The overhead lights reflected off the copper and the crystal shimmered in the candlelight. From outside, we heard the cicada's song mingling with our conversation, wafting in through the French doors with the scent of the magnolias.

Dinner was a traditional menu of recipes handed down through generations of Cajun and Creole families…

Blackened Crab Cake on an Eggplant "River Raft"
Boudin Sausage Bites
Okra Gumbo
Alligator with Sauce Piquante
Crawfish Etouffee
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce
Plantation Pecan Pie

When we left our host to return to our limousine, a cat emerged, from where I don't know, and gingerly came to rub its nose along the hem of my dress. He mischievously played with the fringe, then, after arching his back to be petted, happily carried on back to the house. The dogs came out and leapt around us, gave a few farewell barks and took off to their kennels.

The road was almost deserted. We traveled in silence, locked in the past, resisting the present. A complicit moon illuminated the cotton fields, creating for us a little fairyland, a little "lagniappe" to the day.

Once back in my hotel room, when the pink laurel flower I had tucked into my hair fell out, I was seized by the certainty that I'd been born a century too late!