With Baudelaire in Brussels, #15
The men visit a brothel. Champagne flows.
To mark the 160th anniversary of Georges Barral’s trip to Brussels and his five-day visit with the poet Charles Baudelaire, I am publishing my translation of the first four days from his memoir on Substack. You can find the previous instalments here.
Nadar walks in front with Alexandre Dumas fils and Captain Sterckx. The engineer Léon Rote, Jean Rousseau, and Gustave Frédérix follow, along with two other people whose names I no longer remember. Baudelaire and I form the cortege while Nadar acts as guide. We follow him and walk alongside the buildings of the Banque Nationale, arriving at the rue du Bois Sauvage. There we pause and admire the northern side of Sainte-Gudule church – the details of its finely embroidered stonework stand out in the soft moonlight. Gustave Frédérix and Nadar seize the opportunity to give us a lecture on the Flamboyant Gothic style in front of the side portico, which is a pure masterpiece. We continue our walk. Nadar stops at the very spot where the Géant had risen into the air four days ago. We lean on the botanical garden’s stone balustrade in order to comfortably contemplate the nocturnal panorama of Koekelberg. At this point, Gustave Frédérix and Jean Rousseau wish us a good night.
Nadar, Alexandre Dumas fils, Sterckx, Rote, and the two unknown members remain, as well as Baudelaire and myself. A short consultation takes place between Nadar and Alexandre Dumas a little further ahead, but I am not able to determine what is being discussed. Deliberately, these two place themselves at the head of the column. We descend the boulevard du Jardin Botanique to rue Pacheco, skirt Collège Saint-Louis and, just a little bit further down, we enter a well known brothel. It is frequented by magistrates and the upper classes of Brussels. Along with my companion, I had followed without realizing what we were doing or the place to which were going. Baudelaire whispers into my ear. “It is the custom in Brussels,” he says. “All evenings finish in a house of ill repute.”
Passing through a dark corridor, we enter a well-lit sitting room. It has glossy walls, and the furniture is upholstered with Turkey-red cloth. We are welcomed by a large woman, outrageously made-up, who wears a very low cut black velvet dress. It is the madame, a woman who must be at least fifty years old. She greets us ceremoniously. “Please take a seat, gentlemen,” she says. “The ladies will come down!”
She presses a bell and stares at me. I thought for a moment that she was going to ask my age and refuse to allow me entrance into to her institution. What an affront! I maintain my composure. A door opens suddenly, and a cacophony of laughs, songs, coarse words, and a nauseating whiff of musk erupts from it. A dozen half-dressed and undressed nymphs scatter around us in the room — blondes, brunettes, fat ones, skinny ones, tall and short, German and French. They go and sit down on the divan. Some do not hesitate to join them. Intimidated, I stand apart. It is the first time I have ever visited a feminine marketplace. Baudelaire is contemplative, and has taken up a position in the corner. The madame raises her voice and asks the customary question with an imperative tone: “What will the gentlemen have to drink?”
“Champagne, of course!” say Nadar and Dumas in unison.
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