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ORIGINAL FRENCH ARTICLE: Sainteté

by Maurice Ulrich’s Daily Ticket

Sainthood

Translated Monday 19 October 2009, by Henry Crapo and reviewed by Isabelle Métral

It’s beautiful, like a book of pious images. The special envoy from Le Figaro [1] followed François Fillon to Rome.


This was for the canonization of Jeanne Jugan. The founder of the Little Sisters of the Poor is now a saint. It’s surely the best thing that could have happened to her. But here we are at the meeting: "When François Fillon shows up on Saturday, at the entrance to the apartments of Benedict XVI, he chooses to adopt a humble posture, respectful of those chambers." Sure thing. What was Le Figaro expecting to witness? That he shout "Off with your beanie!", or begin singing Le Curé de Camaret [2]?

On leaving, reports the newspaper, the Prime Minister had this profound thought: "I hope the spirit that enlivens this place will also enliven the French press." What the devil! Oh, pardon ... my God! Give us a saintly press, impregnated with the spirit from on high that inspires the Vatican in all things, which keeps us safe from the safe, opens our tolerant nature toward the negationist bishops, welcomes the Opus Dei and all their sort ... among others.

But what Le Figaro retained above all was the Roman lesson of François Fillon, who emphasized "the efforts of France to moralize capitalism." The Pope himself had evoked a capitalism that ought not to be "without faith, without law". But how to do this? The boss of Le Figaro, Serge Dassault ought to know a thing or two about this. One pater and three aves, maybe whilst holding his hand on the dividends?

[1A daily newspaper specializing in business news.

[2The Girls from Camaret is bawdy traditional song very popular in France. Some possible English lyrics are printed in the book Bohemian Paris: Picasso, Modigliani, Matisse, and the Birth of Modern Art By Dan Franck, Cynthia Liebow, page 357:

The girls from Camaret all call themselves virgins

The girls from Camaret all call themselves virgins

But when they’re in my bed

They prefer to hang onto my wick

Than to candles, candles, candles ...


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