What the Town of Georgetown and County of Clear Creek Could Have Lost

It is difficult to measure the value of something that never existed—or, in this case, something that could have disappeared. But imagining Georgetown without Hotel de Paris Museum makes clear that its preservation was not simply the saving of one historic building. It saved an important part of the community’s identity, economy, and connection to Colorado history.

Stewarded Hotel de Paris

When The National Society of The Colonial Dames of America in the State of Colorado acquired Louis Dupuy’s Hotel de Paris in 1954, the property had already closed as a hotel and restaurant and was briefly operated as an antiques business. Instead of allowing the building and its contents to disappear through neglect, alteration, or dispersal, the Colonial Dames transformed it into a museum for the public. More than seven decades of preservation have resulted in a remarkably intact historic property, including approximately 90% of Louis Dupuy's furnishings.
 
Had that intervention not occurred, Georgetown could have lost far more than a building.  It could have lost one of the most tangible places connecting today's community to the period when Georgetown was a major center of Colorado's silver economy. Hotel de Paris operated within that world as a hotel, restaurant, and showroom for traveling salesmen. Today, it provides visitors with an unusually intact physical setting in which to understand that history rather than simply read about it.
 
The loss would also have diminished the historic landscape that helped distinguish Georgetown from other mountain communities. The National Park Service identified Hotel de Paris as a major reason for establishing the Georgetown–Silver Plume National Historic Landmark District in 1966. The district's designation, together with Georgetown's historic preservation efforts, helped establish the community's heritage as an important visitor asset.
 

Lost Hotel de Paris (imagined)

For Georgetown, the consequences would have been particularly visible: A landmark would have disappeared from the town's streetscape, weakening the historic character that visitors come to experience and that residents expect.

 
A major visitor attraction would have been lost. Georgetown's tourism economy is built in significant part around its collection of historic places, including Hamill House Museum, Georgetown Fire Fighting Museum at Alpine Hose No. 2, the Energy Museum, and the Georgetown Loop Railroad.
 
Local businesses would have lost another reason for visitors to stop, stay, explore the commercial district, dine, shop… and return. This is especially relevant because Clear Creek County identifies heritage preservation and sustainable tourism as components of its tourism strategy.
 
A historic building is not merely an artifact; when preserved and interpreted, it becomes a place where successive generations can encounter stories about the people and circumstances that shaped their community.  Future generations would have inherited a story with fewer original places and objects through which to understand it. The museum's surviving guest registers alone contain more than 18,000 individual entries, offering researchers a remarkably direct connection to the people who passed through Georgetown during the hotel's historic period.

Abandoned Hotel de Paris (imagined)

 
For Clear Creek County, the loss would have been broader still. Hotel de Paris is part of the interconnected collection of historic resources that gives the county a distinctive heritage tourism identity. The county's own tourism bureau describes the museum as a unique and unusually complete representation of early Colorado history.

Without Hotel de Paris, the county would have had one fewer authentic destination through which to tell the story of immigration, mining, entrepreneurship, hospitality, commerce, architecture, labor, and the cultural diversity of the nineteenth-century. The absence of the building would also have meant the loss of an irreplaceable collection of original furnishings and documentary evidence.
 
Most importantly, there would have been no opportunity to reinterpret the place for succeeding generations. A preserved Hotel de Paris allows the story to continue evolving—from Louis Dupuy's entrepreneurial life to the experiences of workers, builders, guests, women, immigrants, Chinese laborers, and the many people whose lives intersected with the property.

Altered Hotel de Paris (imagined)

The preservation of Hotel de Paris therefore represents more than architectural stewardship. It represents an investment in Georgetown's ability to remember itself.  Had the property been demolished, radically altered, its contents dispersed, or simply allowed to deteriorate beyond recovery, Georgetown and Clear Creek County would have lost an irreplaceable historic resource before fully understanding its potential.
 
Instead, preservation created an enduring community asset—one that contributes to the character of Georgetown, strengthens the county's heritage-tourism offering, provides a place for scholarship and education, and allows people to encounter something remarkably close to the world Louis Dupuy and his contemporaries knew.

The real value of historic preservation is sometimes easiest to see by imagining the absence: not what Hotel de Paris contributes because it exists, but what Georgetown and Clear Creek County would be missing if it did not.

Where Did All the Dirt Go?:  A Theory About the Excavation and Making of Hotel de Paris

One of the most intriguing questions surrounding the evolution of Louis Dupuy's Hotel de Paris is what happened to all of the rock and soil excavated during the property's expansion?

Over time, Hotel de Paris grew dramatically from the ca. 1870 Powers Building (a false-front two story commercial structure) into a spacious Gilded Age hospitality complex of well-appointed rooms, efficient work areas, and discreet storage spaces located in two buildings.  Historical accounts document the involvement of Chinese laborers in some of this work, particularly in the excavation and construction associated with the expansion of the property.

Excavation on a rocky building site in Georgetown, Colorado would have produced an enormous quantity of displaced material, which proprietor Louis Dupuy confirmed in a newspaper article.  Rock had to be broken. Soil had to be moved. Foundations and a cellar had to be carved into mountain terrain.  But where did all this debris go?

My theory is that much of it may never have left the property.  Instead, the material excavated may have been systematically reused as part of the remarkable physical expansion of Hotel de Paris—providing fill, foundation material, and structural support for the Annex Building, kitchen expansion, east addition, warehouse, and the stone walls enclosing two exterior courtyards.  This possibility makes both practical and economic sense.

East Courtyard wall under construction (1890)

Building Without Waste

In nineteenth-century Georgetown, hauling tons of rock and soil away from a construction site would have required considerable labor, equipment, and expense. Hotel de Paris, however, was a constantly evolving enterprise operated on a constrained parcel of land. Every available inch of space mattered.  So, why transport useful material away when it could be used immediately?

Excavated stone could become construction material. Smaller rock and rubble could serve as fill beneath floors or behind retaining walls. Soil could be redistributed to level uneven areas or create usable building platforms.  Seen through this lens, Hotel de Paris was not simply expanded—it may have literally been built from the ground that was excavated to make room for it.

Rubble Walls May Hold an Answer

The most visible expression of this theory may be found in the hotel's two courtyards.  The substantial stone walls that define portions of the outdoor space have long been associated with the work of Chinese workers. This construction represents an extraordinary example of skilled labor embedded directly into the historic landscape.  But perhaps these walls tell an even larger story.

Could the stone used in their construction have come directly from excavation occurring elsewhere on the property?  If so, the walls are more than architectural features. They may represent part of an integrated system of construction in which excavation and building occurred simultaneously. Material removed from one area was not discarded as waste but transformed into the infrastructure necessary to support the hotel's growth.

A Complex Built in Layers

The Hotel de Paris we see today was not constructed all at once. It evolved.  The Annex Building, kitchen expansion, east addition, warehouse, and cellar walls represent different phases in the property's transformation from a modest commercial building into one of the most celebrated establishments in the Rocky Mountains.  That evolution required more than architectural ambition. It required moving mountains—sometimes quite literally.

The labor involved in excavating foundations and reshaping the site was physically demanding. Chinese laborers, whose contributions to the development of Colorado communities have too often been overlooked, may have played an essential role not only in removing material but also in determining how that material could be reused.  Their work may therefore survive throughout Hotel de Paris in ways we have not fully recognized.

Rock pile near Lion Gate (1905)

Reading the Buildings Differently

This theory invites us to reconsider what constitutes a historic artifact.  We tend to focus on humanmade objects: furniture, wallpaper, clothing, documents, and architectural details. But the very ground beneath Hotel de Paris—and the material concealed behind walls and beneath floors—may also contain evidence of the people who built and transformed the site.

Perhaps the Annex rests partly upon excavated spoils.  Perhaps the kitchen expansion incorporates fill removed from another portion of the property.  Perhaps the east wing and warehouse occupy ground reshaped with material that was once considered excess.  And perhaps the courtyard walls themselves are constructed from stone pulled directly from the site during the excavation process.

These possibilities cannot yet be presented as established fact. They remain a theory requiring additional archaeological investigation, documentary research, and close examination of the buildings.  But historical interpretation often begins with a question.  Where did all the dirt go?

At Hotel de Paris, the answer may be hiding in plain sight.  The rocks beneath our feet, behind our walls, and supporting the buildings themselves may not simply be part of Georgetown's landscape. They may represent the physical remains of an extraordinary process of adaptation, ingenuity, and labor.  If this theory proves correct, it will add another remarkable dimension to the Hotel de Paris story: the built environment was not merely constructed in the mountains.  In many ways, it may have been constructed from the mountains.

The Case for an Original Influencer: Louis Dupuy

Forget ring lights. Forget hashtags. Forget viral videos.  Louis Dupuy was building a devoted following decades before anyone dreamed of the internet.

The Evidence

Exhibit A: He Curated a Lifestyle Brand

Louis Dupuy wasn't just running a hotel. He sold an experience. Guests came for elegant French-inspired dining, refined surroundings, and the promise that, for a few hours or a few days, they could leave behind the rough-and-tumble silver mining camp outside and step into a little corner of Europe.  Today's influencers call it "creating an aesthetic."  Louis simply called it Hotel de Paris.

Exhibit B: Food Content Was His Specialty

Before food bloggers photographed every meal, visitors couldn't stop talking about Dupuy's cooking. His menus featured oysters, fine wines, elaborate dinners, and beautifully presented dishes that became legendary across the nation, and, arguably, the world.  No Instagram stories required.

Exhibit C: He Mastered Personal Branding

People didn't travel to meet "the hotel owner."  They came to experience Louis Dupuy, the "Oddest Host in America."  His personality, reputation, and hospitality became inseparable from the business itself. That's not just marketing—it's his professional brand.

Exhibit D: His Followers Shared His Content

There was no "share" button in the 1880s.  Instead, satisfied guests wrote letters, newspaper and magazine articles, and travel accounts praising Hotel de Paris. Word spread from one traveler to another until people sought out Georgetown, Colorado specifically to experience Dupuy's famous establishment. Word-of-mouth was the original algorithm.

Exhibit E: He Understood Exclusivity

The finest table settings. Imported ingredients. Carefully created interiors. An unforgettable atmosphere.  Modern influencers call this "aspirational content."  Louis called it just an ordinary Tuesday.

The Verdict

Was Louis Dupuy posting selfies? No.  Did he have followers? Absolutely.  Did he shape opinions, inspire travel, define taste, and convince people that experiencing Hotel de Paris was something they simply had to do?  Without question.

So, the next time someone says influencers are a modern invention, remind them that one of the first lifestyle influencers was serving oysters and French cuisine in Colorado nearly 150 years ago.  He just measured his engagement in full dining rooms instead of likes.

Why Hotel de Paris Museum Doesn't Reopen as a First-Class Luxury Hotel

"Why don't you reopen the hotel—even if it's only a few guest rooms?" 

This is one of the most frequent questions we receive at Hotel de Paris Museum...and it's understandable. Staying overnight in Louis Dupuy's legendary inn seems like an extraordinary opportunity to experience the past; however, the mission of Hotel de Paris Museum is to collect, preserve, and share history associated with Louis Dupuy's Hotel de Paris while serving as a catalyst for tourism. 

Since 1954, the property has been owned and operated by The National Society of The Colonial Dames of America in the State of Colorado as a museum dedicated to preserving one of Colorado's most remarkable historic places.  Although reopening portions of the building for overnight accommodations may seem appealing, doing so would conflict with the very purpose for which the museum exists.

A Preservation Success Story

As early as 1945, historians with the State of Colorado recognized Hotel de Paris as an irreplaceable historic resource due to its completeness. Unlike many historic hotels that were remodeled beyond recognition or lost altogether, this building survived with an extraordinary degree of integrity.  Over the past seven decades, extensive preservation, restoration, and conservation work has focused on safeguarding the building and its artifact collection—not preparing it for modern overnight stays. Reopening guest rooms would place many of these achievements at risk.

Inescapable Wear and Tear

Historic buildings survive because use is carefully managed by the museum's owners and professional staff.  Even a small number of lodging guests would dramatically increase foot traffic on original floors and stairs, accelerate wear on historic finishes, require more frequent cleaning, and increase the handling of original doors, windows, locks, and hardware. Every additional use shortens the life of irreplaceable historic materials that cannot simply be replaced once worn out.

Protecting the Extraordinary

One of Hotel de Paris Museum's greatest distinctions is its remarkable collection of original furnishings that remain in or near their intended locations.  Operating guest rooms would inevitably increase the risk of accidental damage, breakage, and loss while creating significantly greater security challenges. The museum's responsibility is not simply to protect the building, but also the thousands of objects that tell the story of the site and the people who built it, worked it, and occupied it.

Room 9, Restored

Authenticity Matters

The goal of historic preservation has been to present the hotel as it appeared during Louis Dupuy's ownership—not to recreate it as a functioning twenty-first-century hotel.  Modern lodging requires bathrooms, fire suppression systems, emergency lighting, accessibility improvements, climate control, expanded electrical service, internet access, expanded security measures, and contemporary furnishings and amenities. Engaging these necessities would largely require substantial alterations that would diminish the building's genuineness.  Ironically, protecting historic artifacts might also require removing them from guest rooms altogether, making those spaces less authentic.

Room 9, Modernized

Museums and Hotels Have Different Focuses

Museums and operating hotels exist for fundamentally different purposes.  A history museum prioritizes preservation, research, and education. A hotel prioritizes guest comfort, convenience, and customer expectations. When those priorities conflict, historic preservation inevitably comes under pressure to accommodate modern lodging standards.

Preserving a Time Capsule

Louis Dupuy's Hotel de Paris is frequently described as the most unique and complete parcel of early Colorado history—a rare "time capsule" that offers visitors an authentic glimpse into the nineteenth century.  Converting preserved guest rooms back into commercial accommodations would fundamentally change their role. Historic rooms would become revenue-producing assets rather than preserved spaces, altering how visitors experience the site and potentially weakening the very qualities that make the property significant.  Such a change could also affect the philanthropic support upon which the museum has depended for decades.

Modern Infrastructure Comes at a Cost

Operating a hotel requires far more than beds and linens.  Reliable plumbing, expanded electrical capacity, heating and cooling systems, internet service, and modern life-safety systems all require extensive capital, installation, and ongoing maintenance. These upgrades often involve invasive work within historic walls, ceilings, and floors that historic preservation seeks to protect.

Honoring Investment

Millions of dollars in public, private, and philanthropic support have been donated to preserve Louis Dupuy's Hotel de Paris as a museum and cultural resource.  Those investments were made with the understanding that the property would remain dedicated to historic preservation, education, and interpretation. Returning portions of the hotel building to commercial lodging would represent a significant departure from that long-standing commitment.

Room 7, Restored

Increased Liability

Unlike museum visitors, overnight guests occupy a building for extended periods without direct supervision.  Potential risks include fire, water damage, accidental breakage, vandalism, personal injury claims, unauthorized access to restricted areas, theft, and damage caused by luggage, food, beverages, or pets. A single incident could undo years of careful stewardship.

Room 7, Modernized

Protecting the Experience

Museum visitors experience Hotel de Paris Museum as a protected historic resource.  Hotel guests naturally personalize the spaces they occupy by unpacking luggage, moving furnishings, charging electronics, eating meals, and otherwise treating rooms as temporary homes. This changes the visitor's relationship with the historic setting and diminishes its interpretive and educational values.

National Responsibility

Louis Dupuy's Hotel de Paris is important not simply because it was once a high-end hotel, but because it remains one of the nation's most complete examples of a nineteenth-century hotel preserved as a museum.  Its management carries responsibilities that extend well beyond local tourism. Preservation and conservation standards consistently emphasize protecting historic buildings and collections when continued commercial use would compromise long-term integrity.

Looking Forward

The good news is Hotel de Paris has already found a sustainable new purpose.  Since 1954, it has evolved from a threatened and deteriorated French inn into a nationally significant museum, tool for education, catalyst for heritage tourism, and community gathering place. That transformation represents one of Colorado's great historic preservation accomplishments.

The ultimate measure of success is not whether guests can once again spend the night within the hotel's historic walls. Rather, it is ensuring future generations can pass through the building and experience it much as visitors did during Louis Dupuy's lifetime.

Decades of careful restoration, conservation, and stewardship have preserved something exceedingly rare: an authentic nineteenth-century hotel that has become an artifact in its own right. Reopening guest rooms—even on a limited basis—would reverse that philosophy by treating the building as a hotel rather than preserving it as one of Colorado's (and, arguably the nation's) most extraordinary museums.

In the end, the greatest luxury Hotel de Paris Museum offers is not a night's stay. It is the opportunity to step into a place where history itself has been carefully preserved for the public.

If you would like to stay at a historic hotel in Colorado -- or anywhere in the United States -- visit Historic Hotels of America (the official program of the National Trust for Historic Preservation that recognizes and celebrates the finest Historic Hotels).

Hidden Fragment, Global Story

Tucked beneath a corner vanity, a small fragment of wallpaper quietly gestures toward a much larger story—one that stretches across oceans and cultures.

Out of sight in Louis Dupuy's Hotel de Paris is a remnant of the property's earliest days. With its delicate pattern inspired by Anglo-Japanese style, what is left of the polychrome wall covering reflects a moment in the 19th century when American and European tastes were profoundly reshaped by an artistic encounter with Japan.

Preserved wallpaper, Room 8

The Opening of Japan—and the Flood of Influence

For over two centuries, Japan maintained a policy of relative isolation from the Western world. That changed in 1853 with the arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry, whose expedition initiated a series of treaties that opened Japanese ports to foreign trade.  What followed was not just commerce—but fascination.  Japanese goods—woodblock prints, ceramics, textiles, lacquerware—began flowing into Europe and the United States. To Western eyes, these objects felt radically different: asymmetrical compositions, flattened perspectives, natural motifs, and an elegance rooted in restraint. This aesthetic movement became known as Japonisme.

Dinner caster, Restaurant Dining Room

Bristolware vase, Restaurant Dining Room

From Elite Curiosity to Domestic Style

Initially, Japanese art captivated collectors, artists, and designers.  Figures like American painter and artist James McNeill Whistler and American artist and designer Louis Comfort Tiffany incorporated Japanese principles into their work.  But the appeal did not stay confined to galleries.  By the 1870s and 1880s, the Anglo-Japanese style--an offshoot of the broader Aesthetic Movement made popular by Irish author and poet Oscar Wilde--began appearing in middle-class homes (and, in our case, a commercial property).  Pattern books, imported goods, and domestic manufacturers translated Japanese design into accessible forms:  birds, bamboo, and florals; emphasis on negative space and simplicity; and, flattened, decorative compositions rather than illusionistic depth.

Ceiling fixture (detail), Sample Room 2

Squat globe, Sample Room 2

Harmony Between Nature and Design

Even in the remote Rocky Mountain mining camp of Georgetown, Colordo, these global currents made their mark.  The popularity of Japanese-inspired design in 19th century America wasn’t accidental. It answered several cultural desires at once:

1. A reaction against industrial excess

As industrialization accelerated, many Americans sought alternatives to mass-produced clutter. Japanese design—with its clarity and restraint—offered a kind of visual relief.

2. A Taste for the Exotic (the Romanticized “Elsewhere”)

Japan was imagined as refined, mysterious, and timeless. Incorporating its motifs allowed Americans to participate in a global, cosmopolitan identity.

3. Alignment with the Aesthetic Movement

The idea of “art for art’s sake”—that beauty itself had value—found a natural partner in Japanese decorative arts, which elevated everyday objects into works of art.

A Fragment as Evidence of Connection

Our surviving piece of wallpaper in Room 8 is out of sight, so it is easy to miss. And yet, it embodies a remarkable truth: even in a frontier setting like Louis Dupuy's Hotel de Paris, global artistic movements were not distant abstractions—they were lived, chosen, and embedded into daily life.  It suggests that the people who passed through these rooms—travelers, workers, artists, dreamers—were not isolated from the wider world. They were participants in it.

Looking Closer

Fragments invite us to look more carefully—not just at what is preserved, but at what lingers in the margins. Beneath furniture, behind walls, in overlooked corners, history waits in partial form.  And sometimes, a fragment is enough to tell a global story.

Wallpaper labled "0 352 A.W.P.M.A." (American Wall Paper Manufacturers Association) 

Awaiting Your Inspection

With the help of Bo Sullivan of Arcalus Period Design and Wayne Mason of Mason & Wolf, we located our wallpaper pattern in the archive of the Benson Ford Research Center at Henry Ford of Dearborn, Michigan.  See the full-size reproduction for yourself, now on display in Room 8.  Printing by Grizzly Creek Gallery, 512 6th Street, Georgetown, Colorado.

A Contemplative Setting Deepens Emotional Connections

The West Courtyard at Louis Dupuy’s Hotel de Paris was used for butchering meat, and storing  cords of firewood and a pile of coal. 

Enclosed by stone walls built by Chinese laborers in the late 19^th century, the West Courtyard at Hotel de Paris Museum is shielded from the hustle-and-bustle of the modern world.  This creates a calm area, a kind of palate cleanser, where visitors can sit and absorb history they learned on one of our self-guided tours.

The West Courtyard provides a reset—something grounding after moving through interior spaces.  Visitors can chat with companions, scroll through photos, or just sit in silence.

Hotel de Paris Museum is a member of the American Alliance of Museums (AAM), which advocates for museums to function as “community anchors” that provide spaces for rest, reflection, and emotional processing.  Therefore, Hotel de Paris Museum has upgraded and reopened its West Courtyard as a quiet zone to help reduce sensory overload, and to facilitate and support visitor well-being and inclusion in a calm space.

Our West Courtyard enhances the visitor experience by providing a physical and psychological break from the museum’s dense Victorian interiors to a serene, open-air environment that allows self-reflection and healing.  For those seeking rest and reflection, it offers a “secret garden” atmosphere that contrasts with the detailed indoor tour.

After 1901, the courtyard transitioned from work to relaxation.  Photographs show members of the Burkholder Family enjoying the sun-drenched, private space.

In addition, our West Courtyard seating encourages visitors to slow down and connect more deeply with Louis Dupuy’s story of reinvention and second-chances.  According to AAM, 4 out of 5 museum-goers are looking for a place to sit, relax, and decompress; therefore, our courtyard delivers exactly that in a setting that feels intentional and restorative.  Framed by historic architecture and thoughtfully furnished, the space invites visitors to pause while touring, reflect on what they’ve experienced, or simply take a breath.

A Hermit's Hospitable Home

Frenchman Adolphe Francois Gerard was born to innkeepers from Alençon in 1844.  As an adult, he demanded beautiful objects, luxurious accommodations, good food, fine wine, strong spirits, imported cigars...and an appreciative and captive audience.  However, he had a chequered past that included an allegation of plagiarism and his actual desertion from the United States Army.  Therefore, Gerard re-invented himself as “Louis Dupuy,” a miner in Georgetown, a bustling mining settlement located in the wilds of Colorado's high country.


Eventually, a disabling mining injury that left him scarred resulted in a solution for his questionable future.  Along with his false identity, he invented a complementary make-believe world within the walls of his unique creation, Hotel de Paris.  Either out of nostalgia for his past or to add credibility to his character, Dupuy decorated his property with images of the military, innkeepers, and the French countryside.


In only a few years, Dupuy became widely known as an eccentric hotelier and restaurateur.  He employed Chinese laborers to execute his vision of a luxurious Norman inn close to passes near the top of the Continental Divide.  He referred to his hotel and restaurant as "this little souvenir (of Alençon, France)."  For his guests, the property provided some of the best lodging in the Western United States; for Dupuy, it served as his hideout, and, conversely, his stage.


In 1898, The Illustrated American (which most likely wrote a feature about Dupuy at his own suggestion) called him "a singular character," "a host and a hermit," and "a recluse."  Dupuy was known to turn customers away, close for business to visit his ranch “Troublesome Creek,” and spar with guests about religion, philosophy, science, and politics.  Yet, he was thought of as a gentleman and it has been discovered he courted women and looked kindly on children.  In 1900, he died a 56 year old bachelor with no known descendants.


Louis had not planned on dying.  In fact, an illustration from his letterhead showed Hotel de Paris with a sizeable addition of six more guest rooms.  Furthermore, the ornamental wood rack on which he hung his fourteen room keys had the capacity to hold twenty keys in all.  It is apparent Dupuy was going to continue investing in his property, thereby gaining guests, and, theoretically, growing his reputation as “consummate host.”


The bold steps of updating stationery and installing a new key rack before the property was even expanded indicate Dupuy was succeeding as a businessman and showman.  It seems he subscribed to a similar viewpoint as the character Ray “If you build it, he will come” Kinsella in the movie Field of Dreams.


Promotional tools included the key rack, as well as custom key fobs, soaps, bills of fare, and guest registers.  Much like a cigar store Indian, a gilded zinc statue of a stag (representing Julian the Hospitaller, the patron saint of innkeepers and travelers) beckoned from one of the hotel’s high courtyard walls.  Dupuy placed advertisements in the local newspaper, and had a large wall mural expertly painted below a hand-lettered billboard fastened to a prominent exterior wall.  The name of the inn appeared in gilded letters below the building’s elaborate cornice, and a small sign with the dining room’s name “Louis’” hung on the second floor balcony.  Brazenly, the assumed name “Louis Dupuy” was spelled out in capitalized, gilded letters on the lintel above the hotel entrance.


Perhaps the daredevil in Gerard is what pushed him to build his inn and surround himself with an admiring clientele, despite being on the run.  No matter what his reasoning, Adolphe Francois Gerard discovered the best way to hide was center stage and in the spotlight.

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