Les Galeries de Bois, Le Camp des Tartares, Le Cirque, names of places at the Palais-Royal now gone, large muslin shawls, almanacs describing women and their prices, thirty-one gaming houses. In 1790 the National Assembly received a “petition from the two thousand one hundred prostitutes of the Palais-Royal.” Gold and silver earrings in the shape of guillotines were fashionable. La Chevalier, one of the “nymphs” most in demand, was daughter of the executioner at Dijon. Restif satisfied his mania for classification—already much like that of Fourier—by listing the “girls from the alley of sighs,” the “sunamites,” the “converseuses.” Boutonderose, always dressed in linen; Dorine, the philosopher, air of refinement, generally dressed in pink-lined muslin; Élise, “a woman exuding Sensuality rather than Grace”; Pyramidale, pretty brunette; Sensitive; Amaranthe; Barberose.⁷⁰² The inhabitants of Le Camp des Tartares included a giant Prussian, Mademoiselle Lapierre, more than seven feet tall; the beautiful Zulina, naked, reclining odalisque, a full-size wax statue covered with artificial skin; the gigantic Paul Butterlbrodt, who weighed 475 pounds. The shops sold “Roman dresses à la Clio,” “Greek blouses,” “Thessalian coats” that opened by loosening a single knot. Hairstyles were introduced “à la sacrifiée,” “à la victime.” The “femmes du monde” now held court in the apartments of noble émigrés on the second floor of the galleries. Those ten or so grand courtesans, with small black servants and fashionable accoutrements, were “the real peril,” far more than the “nymphs” who took their clients to attic rooms, rented by the minute, that were dotted around the vast maze of corridors, beyond the sumptuous salons where the ivory roulette wheel spun.⁷⁰³ The brain was overwhelmed by the aroma of that warm scented flesh, by the smells from the open kitchens, hung with game, the meeting point, Baudelaire wrote, for “calamitous dogs,” for “those who wander lone in the meandering ditches of the immense cities,” for those “who sleep in a suburban ruin and arrive each day, at a fixed time, to claim a wrap of food at one of the kitchen doors of the Palais-Royal.”⁷⁰⁴