Giscard had moved into the Elysée Palace in 1974, succeeding the technocratic, bushy-browed Georges Pompidou. To be fair, Pompidou was very Gallic in his own way: a former literature professor and author of a hugely successful anthology of French poetry, he had to endure years of gossip about his wife, who had allegedly been involved in sex parties with the actor Alain Delon. (As an outsider, it’s very hard to work out the truth of this, but Googling pictures of Claude Pompidou and Alain Delon gives you some sense of how outlandish it was.)
But if Pompidou was quite French, Giscard was very French, the distilled, purified essence of Frenchness. Although they weren’t aristocratic, his ancestors had added ‘d’Estaing’ to their surname to make themselves seem important, and that tells you something about them.
Young Valéry had a stellar war record, having served in the Resistance, fought in the French First Army and taken part in the liberation of Paris. He was fluent in German and had been a youthful and effective finance minister in the early Sixties. He was clever, independent-minded, vigorous and bold. He was a moderniser, who reformed his country’s antiquated social laws and promoted women to his cabinet.
But at the same time, Giscard was enormously, magnificently Gallic. He began his presidency with a futile attempt to pretend to be an ordinary person, riding on the Metro and inviting some dustmen for lunch at the Elysée. But his voters didn’t like that and neither, deep down, did he. So then he went to the other extreme, conducting himself like the reincarnation of Louis XIV. When he visited Poland, he had the French air force send fighter jets to bring his forgotten hunting rifles. When he went skiing, he insisted that he must never wait in the line for the lifts.
Then, of course, there were the mistresses. As with all good French presidents, Giscard’s moral clock had stopped in the late seventeenth century, and he didn’t care who knew it. Almost incredibly, he entertained his lovers at a hotel outside Paris called Le Petit Coq aux Champs (The Little Cock in the Fields). It’s probably a myth that among them was the Emmanuelle star Sylvie Kristel, but it’s probably true that Giscard used to leave a sealed letter telling his aides where to find him in the event of a nuclear war.
His most famous conquest, alas, took place only in the realm of the imagination. In 2009, almost three decades after the French electorate had kicked him out, Giscard published a romantic novel called La Princesse et le Président, in which one ‘Jacques-Henri Lambertye’ seduces ‘Patricia, Princess of Cardiff’. He makes his move, incidentally, when they’re travelling back by train after a memorial event for the D-Day landings. Classy! One French reviewer recoiled at this “low-brow gossip”. But like any good monarch, Giscard was utterly without shame. His final contribution to public life came at the age of 94, when he was accused of squeezing the buttocks of a German female journalist. There’s probably a metaphor for something in that, but I’m too English to work out what it is.
Perhaps it’s too tempting to turn Giscard, or any French president, into a joke. It was in the early years of the Fifth Republic, after all, that France’s GDP overtook Britain’s for the first time in a century. For all that we Anglo-Saxons like to scoff at our neighbours’ thirst for corruption — the gigantic sums of public money embezzled in Jacques Chirac’s Paris, for example, or the fact that Nicolas Sarkozy is currently under virtual house arrest with an electronic tag – there are plenty of things about French public life, not least its health service, that put Britain to shame. And for all that we giggle at its presidents’ sexual shenanigans — François Mitterand’s secret second family, Chirac’s reputation as “Monsieur three minutes, shower included”, François Hollande’s assignations on the back of a scooter — were they notably less effective than Harold Wilson, Ted Heath, Gordon Brown or Theresa May?
Most democratic countries get the leaders they deserve. Perhaps that’s why Macron, whatever his flaws, was always going to beat Marine le Pen. She represents a deep-rooted tradition in French political life, stretching back at least to the far-Right, anti-republican, ultra-Catholic Action française movement founded in 1899. (He father Jean-Marie used to sell its newspaper as a young man.) But this was only ever a minority enthusiasm, albeit a potent one.
By contrast, Macron stands squarely in the tradition of his Fifth Republic predecessors. It’s true, of course, that lots of French voters can’t stand him. But plenty of voters couldn’t stand the lofty de Gaulle, the foxlike Mitterrand or the flagrant Chirac, either. And unlike Hollande (‘Monsieur Flanby’, a crème caramel in human form), Macron plays his presidential role to perfection.
Preposterous as it might seem, he genuinely believes in his own destiny. As his former classmates recall, he has seen himself as the saviour of his country ever since he was a teenager, just as de Gaulle did. And perhaps it makes sense that France, far more than Britain, loves a truly regal political leader. France remains the country of the Sun King and the Emperor, the country of Versailles, the Pantheon and Napoleon Crossing the Alps. “You call me Monsieur le Président.” That’s what most French voters want from their leaders.
All of that said, of course, there’s another shadow that has hung over French politics for the last half-century. It’s the shadow of another man who believed himself the champion of destiny, the sword of justice, the incarnation of civilisation. A man with a tortured romantic history, but a man whose human frailties made him only more endearing.
A man feared and loathed by the enemies of the West, a man unfairly mocked by Anglo-Saxon sceptics, yet a man recognised across the world as the very embodiment of France and its traditions. A man who, like the victorious Emmanuel Macron, provides the essential mirror to the presidents of the Fifth Republic; a man in whom you can see the self-belief of de Gaulle, the hauteur of Giscard, the cunning of Mitterrand, the shamelessness of Chirac. A man who believed, more than anything, in his own dignity, the most Gallic quality of them all.
That man was Chief Inspector Jacques Clouseau.
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SubscribeGreat article, Mr Sandbrook. Love your style: more please!
Even the PR portrait at the top is vaguely Sellers-esque.
I heartily recommend the podcast The Rest is History. I imagine this episode will be witty and informative at the same time and hopefully as good as the one about Germany’s post war Chancellors.
I trust that podcast is an improvement on the two made over Easter concerning the Jewish Revolt and Crucifixion?
« When he visited Poland, he had the French air force send fighter jets to bring his forgotten hunting rifles »
you need to get your facts right. No fighter jet Mirage like flew to Poland to bring him his hunting rifles. It was simply a government executive transport…….and that was bad enough. No fighter jet would have penetrated the iron curtain without starting the scrambling of both polish and soviet interception fighters.
The key point was the majority that de Gaulle got in his 1958 referendum – 85%. Unfortunately, at the moment Macron is a very very long way away from that. In a straight fight with a “far right” candidate, he only got 41% of French voters to support him. She got 30%. Hardly a convincing mandate. The parliamentary elections will be interesting, or possibly equally unconvincing.
58 % versus 42 %…..he lost…..she gained.
He does, however, lack the ‘mistress’ – almost an institution in France, even MR ordinary Holland had his lady friend. Plus he’s married to a woman old enough to be his mother which upsets the traditional older man young mistress ‘norm’. Hence perhaps the rumours of his homosexuality, but certainly one of the reasons he doesn’t fit the bill outlined here.
Brilliant, needed a good laugh after voting for ‘le moins pire’ (the least bad.)
And someone should tell Monsieur M that the official photo of a sneery gap-toothed smirk is not endearing either.
Excellent and insightful article. I particularly liked the prank at the end. Well done.
Jean Dujardin’s portrayal Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath, Aka OSS 117, would have been a perfect match as well. Macron almost looks like him as well.
I can recommend the podcast “the rest is history” but only in very small doses. as the repartee between the two participants of the pod can easily shift into utter irritability and even worse.