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“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been some time since my last confession.”
Claude leaned in. “Speak on, my son. Unburden yourself.”
Hesitancy bloomed on the other side of the confessional screen. “I am ashamed, Father. It is difficult to say.”
“The Lord knows all things; what has already transpired, and what is in your heart even now. You need not fear.”
This time of day coincided with the lunch hour of many state officials. They came rarely to mass and even more rarely to confession, but when they did, the sins were often of certain magnitude.
“There is… a woman. Not my wife. I thought I had rid myself of her influence. But this week she has been sending me emails.”
“Courriers électroniques,” breathed Claude, “but go on.”
“She knows things about me. Things no one else does. About… mes préférences... sexuelles.”
Claude’s ears sharpened with each word, as the pénitent described, with minimal detail, the photos his dominatrice tempted him with. Each act more deviant than the last, and each term more perversely Anglican. He winced with distaste, safe behind the dark screen.
“You must reflect on these actions, my son. Do they honor your wife? Or your own soul?”
It was mostly a rhetorical question. Sinners already knew they were sinning, or they wouldn’t be here.
There was silence on the other side of the screen. Claude nodded his head.
“Ten Hail Marys, and ten Our Fathers,” he pronounced. “And read ten pages of the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française, ninth edition.”
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The conversation in the confessional followed Claude around for the next several days. He was retired, for the most part, saying mass only a few times a week and hearing confessions only intermittently. It was mere chance that such a hideous recitation had fallen on his ears. The sins were somewhat less remarkable. But those English words were vile.
Several years ago, during his tenure as bishop of Angoulême, Claude had been the Church’s point of contact for some of France’s greatest criminals. It was strange to think that their coarse tongues had been more pleasing to the ear than the confessions of a deviant financial ministre.
Some of those men had barely mustered remorse for the horrific actions they recounted. That had been bad enough. But somehow, the careless English gushing from that pent-up pénitent had felt to Claude like witnessing a massacre in real time, of his beloved mother tongue. “Je vous salue, Marie,” he repeated to himself, any time the subject crossed his mind. For of course the Holy Mother would be just as horrified to hear French butchered in the name of sexual perversion.
When Thursday rolled around, he had made up his mind. It was time to involve les immortels.
-------
Claude walked up the steps to the hallowed doors of the Institut de France, heart heavy. He was unsure how his fellow esteemed members would react to what news of the outside world he came bearing. They were an insular lot, the forty-odd seats of diversely educated academics. Most of them were older, as he was, but they were worldly, well-traveled, and well-read peers. There were even women among their members!
Although l’Academie had a splendid ceremonial costume, their weekly meetings were more informal, so the long oval conference table was a blur of blues, blacks, greys, and ivories. It was not dissimilar to the colors worn in the priory.
“Friends,” he announced, taking his seat. It was Fauteil 1, which had belonged to Cardinal Richelieu, much as the throne of the Pope belonged to St. Peter. He looked down the room at the faces of his fellow members. Some of them were also rivals, but that was merely God’s way of showing the light of Christ in every individual.
“It has come to my attention that we have neglected a particular area, regarding the creeping infiltration of the sickly crusted thing that is the English language upon our beloved langue française.
Concerned faces looked back at him. “What do you mean, Father?”
“I speak of what may be taboo, but is whispered between lovers every night in pursuit of more adventurous sexual fulfillment. It seems that there are many for whom the bedroom words… have become distinctly Anglican.”
One of his rivals, Sylviane Agacinski, gave him a sharp look that said, How do you know this? Have you been naughty, Father Dagens?
He felt his ears grow hot. “I heard this from a penitent confessor and since learned that it has become most common. It seems… in the act of love, there exists an entire vocabulary that is influenced grievously by English.”
He raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. “It would appear that a great deal of les préférences sexuelles particulières… use English terminology.”
“Are the French not the most creative, and most embracing, of all the people on earth? Do we not push language toward the way of greatest eloquence, resourcefulness, and beauty?
“Are we not a humanist country that lifts up the human flesh that Christ himself made holy?”
Sylviane leaned back in her chair. “What are these terms, Father Claude? Perhaps I know them.”
Their youngest member, Florian Zeller, wore an expression of great profundity. He surely had great insight into the world of sexual deviance, as a film and theatre director. But as he had been elected to Fauteil 14 less than a year ago, he was obliged to keep silent in deference to his elders, as tradition dictated.
Claude cleared his throat. “The man who confessed to me… uses the services of a dominatrice.”
“Such practices engage in degrading talk, and have incorporated English words into this type of speech.”
He shuddered. “Too much. Mommy, daddy, boss, pet, doll, kitten, puppy. Even chevillage is often called by the English term.”
“What is it?” said the esteemed occupant of seat 23, sounding fearful.
“Pegging.” Horrified gasps of outrage followed.
"I know we have addressed it before -- but it seems the same practice has affected even the maîtrise de l'orgasme.” Claude bowed his head. “They seem to prefer the English term, edging.”
“It is not only English,” said a reasonable voice. It was Dominique Fernandez, Fauteil 23. “Sometimes the terms are Japanese. Omaroshi is what they use for maîtrise du pisse.”
“Pah,” huffed Marc Lambron, from Fauteil 38. “There’s nothing more French than piss!”
A few chuckles echoed around the large oval tabletop.
“Of course such things were surely always practiced in Mother France,” said Claude measuredly. “But we now must confront the outside influence affecting how the people have sexual intercourse -- which, as you know, is viewed as the ultimate expression of love towards the flesh that Christ himself imbibed.”
“I encourage you all to think over these terms, and speak with those in your daily life who may have had some encounter with such… kinks. We must not allow English -- or Japanese -- to infiltrate the sexual communication of the French people.”
Claude looked down, where the printed agenda for that afternoon’s review had gone virtually unaddressed. That put them behind another 20 or 30 words, but surely this matter was of tantamount importance. The French citizenry befouling their coupling with distasteful un-Gallic phrases would birth the next generation of French speakers. It was the Academie’s solemn duty to guide them towards the light of purest linguistic expression.
All of them would be gone one day -– but the French tongue would live forever, immortal, in the mouths of those who spoke it. It was a fixation orale of the highest intent.
“Cultural preservation begins at home. It begins in bed. The most intimate words are a reflection of our hearts. Our hearts are French, and so must our desires be.”
Firm agreement echoed around the room.
"Next week, we will meet to discuss this in more depth.”