After a bitter struggle, the sword-wearing members of the Académie Française have decided to allow former French president Valéry Giscard d'Estaing to join their club, writes Lara Marlowe in Paris.
The Republican Guards' boots echoed across the cobblestone courtyard of the Institut de France, the cultural heart of the country. It was the first Thursday in December and the oldest and most prestigious of the institute's five academies, the Académie Française, was holding its annual public session. Guests queued outside the famous dome, a sort of miniature St Peter's, clutching engraved invitations.
One by one, the "immortal ones", as the academicians are known, glided beneath the archway in chauffeur-driven limousines. Most had donned their gold-embroidered costumes before arriving at the quai de Conti, but for those who preferred to dress in situ, the Guards carried trunks filled with swords and Napoleonic cocked hats. Watching the spectacle, one felt transported in time.
In the wood-panelled library, a woman in a Chanel suit warned me: "Don't open that door! An academician is sleeping his lunch off!" In the minutes before they filed into the cupola, to the drum-roll supplied by Guards wearing red-crested helmets, the "immortals" exchanged small talk. There was a chill among the clans: left-wing, Catholic, Le Figaro, but especially between Gaullists and the non-Gaullist right. The election of the former French president, Valéry Giscard d'Estaing, has torn apart one of France's oldest institutions. Of which more later.
The Académie Francaise was dreamed up by Cardinal Richelieu in 1634, to prevent French men of letters plotting secretly against King Louis XIII. Those were the days of d'Artagnan, when no gentleman ventured out sans sword. The custom has survived nearly four centuries; every new academician receives a sword from his publisher and friends. The academy's two clerics and three women members are an exception.
Victor Hugo updated the academicians' costume in 1848, abandoning breeches and silk stockings for modern trousers. Each ceremonial suit is designed by a French couturier. The cost, of approximately €20,000, is footed by the academician.
Membership of the academy is more ceremonial and less financially advantageous than joining Aosdána, the organisation established in 1983 to honour Irish artists. Only five of Aosdána's 193 members may become saoi, the highest office, which confers a gold torc. The Académie Française's membership is capped at 40, though there are only 37 "immortals" alive at the moment. Their pocket money amounts to little more than €100 per month, compared to a cnuas or yearly stipend of €11,070 for many of Aosdána's artists.
The Académie Française's largesse takes the form of more than 60 cash prizes, awarded to non-members in a lavish ceremony every December.
Financed entirely by donors, the prizes can be worth tens of thousands of euro, and are considered a way of encouraging "the radiance of the French language".
A significant number are awarded to writers from former French colonies. The top three prizes this year went to a poet from Mauritius, a politician and academic from Lebanon and a professor of Vietnamese origin.
"We consider them French," said novelist Michel Déon, who lives in Co Galway. He travelled to Paris to preside over the awards ceremony and deliver the academy's annual Discourse on Virtue. "They are French through their language. French is spoken less and less, but the academy does what it can. It's a losing battle; English is easier and there's no grammar. There's a grave danger that English will become the universal language. It is spoken everywhere, but it's poor, pidgiEnglish."
Despite the prestige, both Aosdána and the Académie Française suffer from a reputation as elitist institutions and, in the academy's case, accusations of age and sex-based discrimination. The artistic community's ambivalent feelings towards the institution were best summed up by Flaubert in his Dictionary of Clichés: "Académie Française. Denigrate it, but try to join it if you can."
The minimum age for joining Aosdána is 30, though most members are at least a decade older. The average age at the Académie Française is 77.
"It's true; we're not youngsters," said Déon. "And sometimes we live a very long time. I was the youngest when I joined at age 58. I'm still in good health [at age 84] and they're not about to throw me out."
Aosdána did some soul-searching after novelist John Banville resigned in 2001. Earlier, it was divided by attempts to evict the late Francis Stuart because he had done radio broadcasts from Nazi Germany.
The crisis that seized the Académie Française in recent weeks was also about who should or should not be a member, and opposed two right-wing camps whose mutual animosity stretches back to the second World War, when some supported Gen Charles de Gaulle and others opposed him.
Maurice Druon, a former "perpetual secretary" of the academy, who briefly served as culture minister under President Pompidou, broke the academy's tradition of keeping its debates secret by publishing a vitriolic essay against the candidacy of Giscard on the front page of the Figaro Littéraire.
You might have thought Giscard was too busy trying to get his European Constitution approved by EU heads of state. But his father, Edmond, was an academician, and Giscard has long harboured literary yearnings. Shortly before he became president in 1974, he said: "If I were certain to have the power of writing . . . the equivalent of the oeuvre of Guy de Maupassant or Gustave Flaubert, it is without doubt towards this sort of activity that I would turn, with joy." But Giscard's literary output - half a dozen political books and a novel about a provincial notable who seduces a hitchhiker - "does not impose him on the history of French literature", Druon wrote.
"Giscard's election would bring great prestige to the academy," argued Déon, a leader of the pro-Giscard camp. "He was the head of state, and there's a good chance he'll be president of Europe."
Druon harked back to Giscard's monarchical manner when he was president of France, and the bad blood between him and President Jacques Chirac. The French leader is the official "protector" of the academy and receives all new academicians. Druon said it was unseemly for a former "protector" to seek votes from academicians whose election he approved.
"The candidacy of Mr Giscard d'Estaing is political, and that's the rub," he added.
"What bad faith!" Déon retorted. Druon got the former Gaullist prime ministers, Michel Debré and Pierre Messmer, elected to the academy. The latter allied himself with Druon in opposing Giscard. Their chief grievance was that he wrested the presidency from the Gaullists nearly 30 years ago.
The battle was cut-throat. The "immortals" received an anonymous letter reminding them that Giscard accepted diamonds from Emperor Bokassa, and containing a selection of anti-Giscard quotes by de Gaulle, Pompidou and others. The Giscard camp accused Druon of directing the dirty tricks.
"If Valéry Giscard d'Estaing is elected, Druon's situation will be very difficult," Déon predicted.
On Thursday, Giscard received 19 of 34 votes cast, achieving immortality by a whisker. Then the ballots were burned, as is the custom. But Gaullist academicians are threatening to boycott Thursday afternoon sessions devoted to drafting the definitive French dictionary. It could take years to restore the cosy old boys' club atmosphere on the quai de Conti.
In the meantime, it feels more like a den of plotters.