It’s still quite amusing, this Fifth Republic. Because it is made to achieve absolute majorities placed at the service of the action of the President of the Republic, it has become accustomed to counting on the benches of its Parliament personalities of canine loyalty, considering their word as entirely enslaved to the plans of only one – the President of the Republic, alias “the PR” (note the sound so close to the “father”). From then on, parliamentary work, debates in committee, questions to the government gradually faded. The technical dimension has taken precedence over a political dimension voluntarily left to the executive, which sets the tone in Parliament and sets the tone in the media.
With the disappearance of the caciques of the Third and Fourth Republics, the V imposed its parliamentary style, pleasantly gray despite the persistent presence of decorum. Admittedly, there are parliamentarians who have kept a taste for cutting edge, a sense of the prick, and even a love of the formula. They are so rare that their interventions are immediately framed and placed on the fireplace – such as those of Claude Malhuret.
However, French democracy was born in the greatest disorder. It was even born out of disorder. She never ceased to be agitated, shrill, even brutal. From its origins, it was characterized by the access to the platform of those whom the royal order prohibited from speaking – craftsmen, journalists, women of the people. And it was loud. From there, in France, the worship of orators worthy of ancient Rome, the populo side in addition. Who doesn’t have the deep regret of not having a recording of Jaurès haranguing the crowd at the Pré-Saint-Gervais (the photo is almost sound)? What lover of the Republic has not dreamed of hearing Robespierre being cut off, before having his head cut off? Who wouldn’t like to hear Danton’s voice? And that of Gambetta? All these founders of the Republic practiced the verb loud, sharp, without concession. And they didn’t have the insult in their pocket.
“Assassin”, “impostor”, “agent provocateur”: these are the words that the Rogue drop from the podium to reach the opponent. It shocks. We remind you of the rules. We sanction. We apologize. Alright. But, citizens, our memory is failing! The Republic was also built on language without hindrance, sometimes without respect, without restraint in any case, as if speech, the use of speech, the abuse of speech were the sign that the Republic is alive.
“Abject animal”, “wormy brute”…
There’s nothing better to refresh yourself than to consult the marvelous little book published ten years ago under the direction of the scathing Bruno Fuligni at Editions du Rocher, and which I brought out for the occasion from my jumble: the Small dictionary of political insults. We then dive into an anthology which nevertheless makes the term “murderer” pass for a pleasant sweetness. And do not believe that the “government” parties were outdone! Nothing was so well shared as the venomous insult. If Maurras called Blum a “despicable animal”, Blum replied that he was a “crooked brute”. This is true in the rostrum of the Assembly, but even more so in the newspapers, where the rare adjective and the vitriolic line were in order. Thus Joseph Caillaux de Daladier: “It’s a bull that smells of the stable”… or this “assassin”, launched for him by the Communist deputy Florimond Bonte at the National Assembly in 1947. Or the Bonapartist deputy launching at Gambetta: “You are the friend of all the rogues, of all the incendiaries, of all the assassins of the Commune!”
Obviously, in the face of these deportations that had become common, the regulations of the Assembly were invented, supposed to preserve the republican gravitas, and to ensure that parliamentarians remained for the youth of France an example of good behavior, if nothing else. Alas, even that does not always hold because the Republic is by nature this perpetual Saturnalia which calls for vociferation and excess, sometimes even laughter. Thus, to Victor Hugo complaining of being constantly interrupted and demanding a reminder of the rules, President Dupin replied: “The rules cannot give me the strength to stop laughing.”
Such is parliamentary life in France. If it is permissible to deplore its excesses, we cannot regret its vitality.