The angel, which had led us to the sixth circle, had erased a sign from my forefront
 and he remained behind us. And me, who was lighter, I walked and I listened to them 
with happiness so that I followed, while going up, these agiles spirits, when then, 
Baudelaire says to Dante: 
"The affection that I have for you, without  having known you, came only to me, from your poetry. 
But forgive me of my audacity and tell me what sin retains you in this place, you, so full of wisdom?" 

These words made Dante smile, he answered: 
"All what you say is a testimony of affection for me. In truth, there are often appearances 
which make doubt wrongly, because the true reasons are hidden. Your question shows me that 
you believe I was vaindicative in my other life, perhaps to have been very harsh towards my people 
and much more still, for your French compatriots; however, know that revenge was not my matter, 
and that this lack of measurement,  thousands of moons have punished it and that 
if I punished other that way, it is that I love too much." 

And Baudelaire reflected to himself and he says: 
"You are one of those who led me to the Parnassus to drink to the breasts of the Muses, 
and it is you who, the first, after Satan, gave me the enlightment. 

You did like somebody who walks during the night, carrying a lantern 
and who does not  use it, but lights up those who follow  him, when you said:
 "Oh lady in whom last all my hope, 
and who, for my salvation, suffered 
to leave in hell the trace of your steps, 
if I could see so many great things, 
I recognize that I owe it to the grace 
and to the strenght received from your power and your kindness; 
you led me from slavery to freedom 
by all the ways, by all the means, 
which you had, for that, in your power. 
Preserve in me your munificence so that my soul,
 that you cured, is detached from my flesh by pleasing you still!"(1) 

And Baudelaire who felt in liveliness in front of the poet said:
 "I am only an old boudoir full with faded pinks, 
Where lie a whole tumble of out of date modes, 
Where the plaintive pastels and the pale Butchers, 
Alone, breathe the odor of an uncorked bottle. 

The stupidity, the error, the sin, the stinginess, 
Occupy my spirit and work my body, 
And I feed my pleasant remorses. 
As the beggars nourish their vermin.

 As a poor debauched who kisses and eats 
The martyrized breast of an antique trollop. 
I steal when passing a clandestine pleasure 
Which I press well strongly  like an old orange." 

"You, you know it well, Dante my friend the poet, 
who knew to follow up to over there, the soft and tender Beatrice."

"The poet is similar to the prince of the clouds 
Who haunts the storm and laughs at the archer; 
Exiled on earth in the middle of the hootings,
His wings of giant prevent him from walking.

 My youth was only a dark storm, 
Crossed over, here and there by sparkling suns; 
The thunder and the rain made such a devastation, 
That it remains  in my garden only few vermilion fruits. 

That you come from heaven or hell, what matters 
Oh Beauty! monster enormous, alarming, ingenuous!
 If your eye, your smile, your foot, open the door to me
Of an Infinity that I love and have never known? 

Of  Satan or God, who matters? Angel or Siren, 
What matters, if you render, - fairy with velvet eyes, 
Rythm, perfume, gleam, oh my only queen!-
 Less hideous the universe and  the moments, less heavy?"(2)

And Dante retorted as follows: 
"Never art or nature presented as much beauty to me 
than the beautiful body where Beatrice was locked up and who returned to dust; 
and if this sovereign pleasure were thus removed from me by her death, 
what  mortal thing should I still wish to possess? 
I had on the contrary, since I had made so
 a first experiment of the misleading things,
 to raise myself to her who was not any more the same. 
I had not to bend my wings towards the earth, to await for other blows, 
a young girl or some other momentary vanity. 
The young bird lets itself draw two or three times,
 but it is in vain that we spread a net or
that one draws the arc in front of those which have feathers already."(1) 

Then Dante ask him:
 "Tell me, if you know it, where are Ovide the Latin, Virgile and Stace; tell me if they are damned, 
and in which circle they are."
 Baudelaire answered him: 
"These, Rimbaud and also Verlaine, Neruda, me and much others, we are, with Homere 
whom the Muses nursed more than others, in the first circle of the obscure prison. 
Several times we speak about the Parnassus which always keeps our Muses close to them. 
Euripide is with us, Antiphon, Simonide, Agathon and several other Greeks, 
whose laurel decorated once the face. 

One sees there, among our common heroins, Phryne and Laïs the courtesans, 
and also  fairies: "the  fairies who are thirsty"; 
the muse Thalie, the male Sappho, Ariadne and Ophelia. 

Also seen there, are Galatee and, very blackly dressed, Juliette, 
the bewitching Muse of  Saint-Germain-des-Prés 
who sang to you if you remember well: 

"strip me down,
 strip me down, 
oh strip me down, 
now,
 immediately, 
instantly
go quickly, 
know how to possess me,
know how to comfort me,
know how to sonsume me,
strip me down,
 strip me down,
 oh strip-me down!"(3)

With this voice to push you, so many times, in the arms of sin." 

Already the poets where silent, looking all around, delivered from the rise and the walls; 
it was close to midday when my guide says: 
"I believe  it is necessary for us to turn on our right, by going around the mountain until La Macaza." 
Thus we took the road with less hesitation. They went ahead, and me, all alone behind, 
I listened to their speeches, which were for me, a lesson of poetic art and of soft sensual pleasure. 
But soon, these talks were stopped by the sight of a tree charged with fruits, 
whose odor was good and suave, which was in the middle of our road. 

Contrary to the fir tree which narrows at the top from branch to branch, thus, that one 
narrowed downwards: it was it seems, so that nobody could climb it. 
On the side where our way was closed,  fell from the high cliff, a limpid water, 
which sprinkled the leaves,  from the top. 

The two poets approached to the tree and a voice shouted from the foliage: 
"There is Marie, who make your mouth turn by the grapes of pleasure,
 there are the Roman women of an ancient epoca, whose drink is made of kisses,
there is Laïs who nourishes you of the science of love; but you will not have of this food." 

Then the voice added: 
"At the first century, as beautiful as gold, hunger made that  the nipples are tasty, and from any brook 
thirst made it a nectar. The Baptist is nourished at the desert, of Honey and grasshoppers;
this is why he is glorious and his Grandor is such that it is described  in the Gospel."