Hotel de Paris
In the 1880s, if you were Somebody, the place to be was the Hotel de Paris, in Georgetown, Colorado. It was the brainchild of a man who called himself "Louis Dupuy." Born in France with a different name, he squandered an inheritance with fast living, tried the seminary, culinary school, journalism, the French and American armies – deserting each one. Then an explosion in Silverplume ended his mining career, and Georgetowners took up a collection to support Dupuy – money he used to pop-the-top of a former bakery and turn it into a hotel. Soon, high-society was checking in, drawn by fine French cuisine, an astounding wine cellar, and lavishly decorated rooms – but only if Dupuy allowed. "This house is my own," he said. "and if I want guests, I invite them in." Which he did, for the crème de la crème, before he died of pneumonia in October of 1900, on a Sunday morning, in Room 13 of the Hotel de Paris.
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