Orbiting Jupiter: my week with Emmanuel Macron

The long read: Is Frances new president a political miracle, or a mirage that is already fading away?

The man does not perspire. I discovered that on 12 September, on the island of Saint Martin, a French territory in the Caribbean that had been devastated a few days earlier by Hurricane Irma. Uprooted trees, roofs ripped from houses, streets blocked by mountains of debris: for three hours Emmanuel Macron, president of France, has been walking through what remains of the village of Grand Case in the sweltering, clammy heat amid the strong odour of burst sewage pipes or in other words, of shit. Everyone accompanying him, including the author of these lines, is dripping with sweat, literally soaked, with large circles under their arms. Not him. Although he hasnt had a second to change or freshen up, his white shirt with elegantly rolled-up sleeves is impeccable. And so it will remain until late in the night, when the rest of us are exhausted, haggard and reeking, and hes still as fresh as a daisy, always ready to shake new hands.

Every interaction with Macron follows the same protocol. He turns his penetrating blue eyes on you and doesnt look away. As for your hand, he shakes it in two stages: first a normal grip, and then, as if to show that this was no ordinary, routine handshake, he increases the pressure while at the same time intensifying his gaze. He did the same thing to Donald Trump and it almost turned into an arm wrestle. Then, with his other hand, he clasps your arm or shoulder, and when the time comes to move on, he relaxes his grip while lingering almost regretfully, as if pained to cut short an encounter that meant so much to him. This technique works wonders with his admirers, but its even more spectacular with his enemies. Contradiction stimulates him, aggression galvanises him. To those who complain that the state took its time bringing relief, he explains calmly and patiently that the state does not control extreme weather conditions and that everything that could be anticipated was anticipated. At the same time and well come back to this at the same time he never stops repeating, just as calmly, just as patiently: I came to Saint Martin to hear your anger.

And its a good thing, too, because up comes an angry woman named Lila, who bars his way and accuses him of not giving a damn about the victims suffering, and of coming just to perform before the TV cameras in his ironed shirt and plain tie that doesnt look like much but must have cost a fortune. Shes so vehement that the group of islanders who have gathered around them start booing and jeering and saying thats no way to talk to the president. Anyone else would have taken advantage of the situation and said: You see, the people are behind me. Not Macron. For him, Lila is a challenge. He takes her hand and his face divides in two something Ive often seen it do: the right half, brow creased, is determined, grave, almost severe, giving you the feeling that whatever he does, hes doing it in the eyes of history. The left half, meanwhile, is cordial, optimistic, almost mischievous, giving you the feeling that now hes there, things will be all right.

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Emmanuel Macron greets residents of Saint Martin after its devastation by Hurricane Irma. Photograph: Christophe Ena/AFP/Getty Images

For five, 10 minutes, he soaks up Lilas wrath. He has a schedule he has to stick to, and his teams in a hurry, worried about running overtime and they will run overtime, they always do. Nevertheless, its as if he has all the time in the world, and in fact he does: hes the boss. One wonders if hell win over Lila, who, now feeling self-assured, growls cockily: Im a bit of a pain in the ass. To which he responds with his most charming smile: I admit, that didnt escape my attention. Good one: she smiles back, shes going to back down, she backs down. Then at the last moment, as they shake hands before parting, she has second thoughts and says: Let go of my hand, damn it! Let go of my frigging hand!

For me this Let go of my hand! was like a desperate attempt to cling to her anger and her integrity. To escape the presidents hypnosis, his persuasiveness worthy of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, his almost frightening seductiveness. Watching him, I was reminded of the opening credits of the TV series The Young Pope, in which Jude Law, dressed in an immaculate cassock, advances across the screen as if on a cloud, in slow motion, weightless, and at one point turns and winks at the camera. Macron winks often. He did it to me. In any event, no matter what you think of him, whether you see his rise as a political miracle or a mirage destined to fade away, everyone agrees: he could seduce a chair. The professional commentators who started to drop him after just a few months of his presidency can keep calling him a powdered marquis, a megalomaniac with royal pretensions, a rich mans president or a communicator without a cause, but he couldnt care less. The people, by contrast, with whom he is directly, physically in contact, are his bread and butter. Anyone whos had their hand shaken by Macron is lost to the opposition: theyre destined to vote Macron and to convert to Macronism. But you cant shake hands with everyone in the country. And anyway, just what is Macronism?


Lets take another look at his file: just three years ago this young man was totally unknown to the general public. By contrast, he was very well known to a small Parisian milieu in which politics, finance and the media are almost incestuously intertwined. In this milieu which he looks down on today, as if he had never belonged to it at all everyone prides themselves on being his friend, having his mobile phone number, and getting upbeat text messages from him in the middle of the night. At 30, hes an investment banker at Rothschild & Co in this line of work, you cant do any better. At 34, he joins the cabinet of then president Franois Hollande as deputy secretary general. And, let it be said in passing, for one-tenth of what he was making as a banker: its not money hes after. I remember seeing a documentary on the new Socialist president at the time: everyone, starting with Hollande, seemed stiff, like stuffed animals dressed up in the dark suits of power. Everyone, that is, but one sharp-witted, vibrant guy with sideburns, the only one in this gallery of mummies who seemed truly alive. That was the day I learned the name Emmanuel Macron.

Just two years later, this young man is minister for the economy, industry and digital affairs. Hollande adores him: hes the ideal son whos so good at charming his elders that a big name in the Socialist party calls him the old folks man. The old folks in question, his mentors, tell him that if he wants to make a career in politics he has to choose a constituency, run for office and become an elected deputy: thats how its always been done in the Fifth Republic. Macron thanks them for the advice, but doesnt run: hes not interested in doing whats always been done.

The presidential election approaches. By all accounts it will play out between the Socialist left burdened by Hollandes morose five years in office, the right caught up in fratricidal quarrels, and the eternal populist wildcard that has borne the name of Le Pen for the past 40 years: business as usual. Then, in April 2016, exactly one year before the election, the young and dashing minister of the economy announces to a sparsely filled room in his home town of Amiens that he is creating his own party, En Marche! with an exclamation mark. It will take some time before the commentators figure out that the initials EM also stand for the name of this young man about whose ambitions and convictions little is known. One month later he hands in his resignation to a confused Hollande, and leaves the government. Even if his intelligence and charisma are generally recognised, no one at this point would put a penny on his winning the presidential election. Or almost no one, that is. To the first people who attend his meetings and join his party, Macron repeats like an incantation that they will remember it all later, like those who joined de Gaulle in London in 1940: they were there, right at the start of the adventure.

And what an adventure! This is a guy who only runs for a single office in his entire life, that of president of the republic, and wins. A guy who understands that the parties that have structured French public life since the end of the second world war are clinically dead, and that it is time to offer the French something new. What were seeing, he maintains, is a clash between old and new, navel-gazing and openness, routine and audacity, conservatism and progress and it goes without saying that he, Macron, embodies progress, openness, audacity, the new. He says hes neither on the right nor the left although saying that usually means youre on the right. So wouldnt it be more accurate to say he is on the right and on the left at the same time?

And here we are again, back at the famous at the same time. This banal, everyday expression has now become practically unusable in France, except as a running joke. For a normal French person today, saying at the same time is already making a joke about Macron, who has raised this speech mannerism to the level of a philosophical position. As soon as he thinks something, he says to himself that you can also think the opposite, that other people think the opposite and that you have to see things from their point of view. When adopted as a general principle, this at the same time quickly gets us to the old centrist utopia: overcoming rifts, choosing the most open and the most competent people from each camp, governing in the centre, bringing people together. Many have dreamed about what in the last century was still called the third way between economic liberalism and social democracy. But in recent years, no one has been able to revive it, until Macron appeared with his stainless self-assurance and phenomenal good fortune.

Its said that when inquiring about an officer he didnt know, Napoleon asked only one question: Is he lucky? In his staggering rise to power, the young man who has nothing against being compared with Bonaparte benefited from an unprecedented planetary alignment. President Hollande decides not to run again partly because this spiritual son, about whom hell say he betrayed me methodically, was also in the running. The Socialist party chooses as its candidate Benot Hamon, whos likable but a lightweight. The conservative candidate, Franois Fillon, ruins any hopes his camp may have had with a string of scandals and lies. That leaves Marine Le Pen, who will self-immolate during the one-on-one debate with Macron by showing just how sectarian and unfit to govern she is. The way is clear. At 39, Macron becomes the youngest head of state in French history, and an international star. The countrys entire political class is dumbfounded. Stunned, former president Nicolas Sarkozy is said to have commented with disconcerting humility: Its me, but better.

During the campaign, Macron changed. At Orlans, on a day of fervent tribute to Joan of Arc, he all but explicitly compared himself with the Maid of Orlans: heralding from a distant village, alone, unknown to all, she hears voices that command her to save France and whats more, she does. Macron, meanwhile, this former student of the cole Nationale dAdministration (for decades, the finishing school for the nations political elite), banker, high official and young minister the absolute prototype of the insider who knows the rules of the game like the back of his hand reinvents himself as an inspired outsider, a mystic capable of ending a meeting by whirling around in front of 8,000 people, his arms folded in front of him, his eyes half-closed, chanting I love you! until his voice goes hoarse. Just after he was elected, Franois Hollande said he would be a normal president. France, ungrateful, wasted no time in finding that normal wasnt a quality they wanted in a leader. Macron, who saw his predecessor get bogged down and systematically takes the opposite stance, announces that hell be a Jupiterian president.

Such ambitions give one pause for thought. The same goes for Macrons decision to do away with the traditional televised Bastille Day interview, on the grounds that the questions put by the journalists risked not doing justice to the new head of states complex thoughts. The words complex thoughts were the butt of a good many jokes, but they werent uttered by accident. Placed in quotation marks, they were approved by his communication experts, and one imagines that complex thoughts is the new name for thoughts at the same time, thoughts that view reality from on high and take account of its many facets. In the same way, in Macrons entourage theres no longer any talk of reforming the country, but straight up transforming it. That, incidentally, was one of the first things he said to me: If I dont radically transform France, itll be worse than if I did nothing at all.


But still, aside from glorifying Macrons personality, what is Macronism about? Almost six months after his election, the question feels more and more pressing. The new president gained power thanks to his charm, and by offering the country a breath of optimism it badly needed. Like Britain, France was once a world power. It dreams of regaining that status, and he promises that with him, it can; that if France follows him, it will become as seductive and competitive as he, Emmanuel Macron, this young president and envy of the world.

For several months we really did feel good about ourselves, but now it seems that this Prince Charming effect is dissipating. The number of French people who approve of Macron has plunged from 66% to 32% since the elections a historic drop. Why? Because a statesman who really wants to make things happen will inevitably become unpopular? Thats what he says, and its true. Because he promised to act fast and he is acting fast, and because to do that he is willing to force through his policies? Because his labour law reform, fast-tracked by executive decree, better suits bosses than workers? Because by scrapping the wealth tax hes favouring the rich? Because, although his campaign focused on overcoming divisions, hes increasingly moving rightwards in a way that shocks voters on the left? A bit of all of that, and above all, a hint of arrogance and class contempt. When he criticises slackers and those who kick up bloody chaos, its the poor and unemployed who feel targeted. And when he talks about train stations where the successful cross paths with those who are nothing, no one hears what he surely meant to say: that inequality saddens him and that hes trying to reduce it. No, everyone hears that the unsuccessful are nothing in his eyes.

I spent a week with Macron and his entourage to report this article, and as it was a week of travelling to Athens and then to Saint Martin my conversations with Jupiter took place, logically enough, in the sky. All power elicits courtlike phenomena, which you can observe at leisure in the presidential plane. But this court is hyper-cool, because the presidents inner circle is made up of young people who, at 30, have jobs you can normally only get at 50, if at all, and who, while never ceasing to be total control freaks, have all adopted the bosss direct, easygoing style. Yet, as easygoing and direct as he is, the boss never forgets the historic dimension of his role, and its in this made-to-measure suit that he goes on his first official visit to Greece.

Whats at stake, and in my view what makes the trip such a challenge, is that the president must tell the Greeks things they want to hear namely, that their cause will be taken up with Germany while at the same time saying nothing that risks rubbing Angela Merkel the wrong way. When I share this fledgling idea with him, he deflects the question. (Admittedly, I didnt exactly expect him to say Youve hit the nail on the head.) Nevertheless, he doesnt mince his words: The Greek crisis was a European crisis, a European failure even. Instead of punishing its leaders for their lies, we punished the people of Greece, whose only mistake was to listen to these lies. The rifts produced in Europe by this crisis are deep, and thats why I have to go to Athens: to return to the source, to talk about democracy.

Talking about democracy is what he did on the Pnyx, the hill in the centre of Athens where in ancient times the assembly of citizens raised their hands to vote on the citys laws and budget. From there you can see over to the Acropolis, and in the early evening light it was a scene of stunning beauty. Almost 60 years earlier, Andr Malraux, a great writer and minister of culture under General de Gaulle, delivered on the Pnyx one of the memorable and nebulous speeches that were his trademark, and you cant help feeling that Macron intends to situate himself in this tradition that of the visionaries and not the managers, the philosophers and not the bureaucrats.

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Macron giving a speech on the Pnyx in Athens in September. Photograph: NurPhoto/Getty

He started by breaking the ice in a particularly effective way with a two-minute preamble in Greek, learned phonetically. And, speaking as someone with a smattering of modern Greek, I can tell you thats no mean feat. Then he launched into his favourite topic: Europe, and the sovereignty of the European peoples, which he doesnt want to leave, he says, to the faint-hearted, fearful clan known as sovereigntists those rightwing populists who want to shut out the world and retreat into splendid isolation.

Half an hour of fine rhetoric leads up to the oratorical climax: Look at the time that we are living in: it is the moment of which Hegel spoke, the moment when the owl of Minerva takes flight. Macron doesnt explain the metaphor; no doubt he overestimates his audiences level of philosophical sophistication. Minerva is the goddess of wisdom, and the owl is her symbol; this owl, Hegel says, waits for night to fall before flying over the battlefield of history. In other words, philosophy cant keep pace with events. The owl of Minerva, he continues, provides wisdom but it continues to look back. It looks back because it is always so easy and so comforting to look at what we have, what we know, rather than at the unknown

Later that evening I told Macron that I had really liked his speech, and he looked at me with intense gratitude, as if no ones opinion could mean more to him. Then I said, without meaning any harm, that I had also very much liked the speech given by his host, the Greek prime minister Alexis Tsipras. In a flash, his blue eyes clouded over and he turned away: other, more pressing matters called. Still, I had been sincere. I thought his speech was very fine indeed. Whats more, its not every day that you hear a head of state appealing to the authority of Hegel. He didnt do it like someone whod been handed a draft by a speechwriter, but like someone who knows what hes talking about. He believes in the Hegelian notion of the cunning of reason, which is to history what the invisible hand is to the market, and which explains how, in serving their personal interests and desires, without knowing it, great men help bring about what the time intrinsically demands.

When its not Hegel hes quoting, its Spinoza, who he loves for his struggle against the sad passions such as bitterness, resentment and defeatism to which Macron himself seems to have had remarkably little exposure. Today in interviews he engages in dialogue with the German thinker Peter Sloterdijk, and while still in his 20s he served as assistant to Paul Ricoeur, an immensely respected, octogenarian humanist philosopher. Since Mitterrand, we have forgotten what its like to have a cultivated president. The day after his speech on the Pnyx, there was a lunch with Greek intellectuals. These Greek intellectuals were ardently Francophile, and quoted one great French poet after the next. With each poem Macron was able to pick up where the other person had left off, reciting the next verses without missing a beat. Baudelaire, Rimbaud, all by heart: its hard not to believe that this man really likes poetry.


Such mastery is intriguing: you start looking for the flaw, the chink in his armour. Macron has political enemies, but theres not much gossip that circulates about his personal life. According to one rumour, hes gay. His wife and he denied it with elegance and good humour, and without making a big thing of it. Nevertheless, there is at least one somewhat screwy anecdote in his unofficial biography, a bungle that puts him in a more human light: the Le Monde takeover affair. In 2010, Le Monde, the most venerable French newspaper, was put up for sale. Unusually, the newspapers statutes allow the journalists to choose the buyer. The bids come in and the journalists are having a tough time keeping them straight when the young and dapper Macron, then a banker at Rothschild, appears and proposes his services as an adviser. Pro bono, he says, because he likes Le Monde, and the press, and the freedom of the press, and that kind of thing. The people at Le Monde find him super nice, and they get a kick out of going to see him at Rothschild & Co late in the evening after the offices have closed.

Two powerful groups are lining up to buy the paper. The journalists favour one group, but Macron isnt thrilled with this, because that group includes a banker who he hates. As for the rival group, its being advised by a certain Alain Minc. The minence grise behind a good many French politicians for the past 40 years, Minc has a reputation for devious clairvoyance, even if the candidates he has backed have generally been defeated at the ballot box. Around this time, by chance, a journalist working with Le Monde, Adrien de Tricornot, has some business near the Champs-lyses in the building where Mincs luxurious offices are situated. When he gets there, he sees Minc coming out, accompanied by Emmanuel Macron.

In what follows, Tricornot has to be taken at his word, but hes a respectable journalist and, crucially, the story has never been denied. In a fit of panic at being caught playing a double game apparently advising both Le Monde and Minc at the same time Macron rushes back into the building, runs over to the staircase and disappears. Tricornot follows in hot pursuit, and finally catches up with him on the top floor, trapped and with no way out, ridiculously pretending to be talking on the phone: a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The journalist then takes cruel pleasure in saying to the Jupiter-to-be: Well, Emmanuel, we no longer say hi to our friends?

There is nothing Macron hates more than being caught out. At one point in the election campaign, he stated that French Guiana, a French overseas department, was an island which it isnt. As the gaffe was picked up everywhere by the media, he defended his remark by saying that of course he knew French Guiana wasnt an island, but that, stuck between the Atlantic and the Amazon, it was nonetheless a sort of island more an island, in any event, than not an island. I was able to observe this poker-players preternatural self-assurance in person earlier this month, when I saw him briefly once again at the Frankfurt Book Fair, where France was the guest of honour. Macron gave a sparkling opening address, followed by Angela Merkel, who spoke in her more down-to-earth way. Then Macron swept off to shake the hands of authors and editors.

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Macron with Angela Merkel in Frankfurt earlier this month. Photograph: John Macdougall/AFP/Getty

Its all going well until the Franco-Congolese author Alain Mabanckou pushes his way through the crowd to say that he heard Macrons speech and has one criticism. Yes? Macron asks, seizing the writers hand. Mabanckou explains that the president didnt say a word about Francophonie (that is, the entire French-speaking world, particularly the former French colonies). It would be easy to answer that, in a speech celebrating Franco-German relations, that wasnt the heart of the matter. But Macron says something else, eye to eye: Talk about Francophonie? I did nothing else.

Somewhat exasperated, Mabanckou insists: You didnt mention a single great Francophone author. At the very least Id have liked to hear the name Lopold Sdar Senghor.

You didnt listen closely enough to what I said, Macron replies, I did talk about him!

The situation becomes embarrassing. Hundreds of people are there, and none of them haveheard the name of the great Senegalese poet and statesman any more than Mabanckou or I have. At that moment it becomes clear that the incident could blow up and go viral, Macron understands hes got to back down, and his way of backing down is to say that of course he didnt actually pronounce Senghors name, but that his name is understood whenever you talk of Francophonie so that as soon as you say Francophonie its clear to all that youre also talking about Senghor. (As a former maths teacher of Macrons said in an interview for a documentary: In my discipline, things are fairly simple: either you know the answer or you dont. But I discovered that theres a third possibility: the young Macron. Even if he doesnt know, hell string you along until youre convinced he does.)

When I asked the presidents office for permission to accompany and interview Macron, it went without saying that he would not read the piece prior to publication. The one condition: that I send them the sentences I quote Macron as saying. This is customary in the press, and protects the person being interviewed from journalistic extrapolations. But it also protects the journalist against the interviewees bad faith: once he had approved the sentences, the interviewee cant then turn around and say he didnt say them, or that they were misrepresented. In theory, I had no problem with such an arrangement, but in practice, I do. Ive got several dozen pages of notes in front of me, jotted down during a half-hour interview on the flight to Athens, and an hour-long one on the way back from the Caribbean. And in all of my notes, in my view, theres only one really strong, really beautiful sentence and this really strong, really beautiful sentence, this sentence that rings true, was off the record. In its place I was given permission to use a perfectly dull, perfectly formatted variant, which I will spare you.

By default, then, here are some samples of the presidents words: I believe our country is on a cliff edge, I even think its in danger of falling. If we werent at a tragic moment in our history, I would never have been elected. Im not made to lead in calm weather. My predecessor was, but Im made for storms. And again: If you want to take a country somewhere, you have to advance at all costs. You cant give in, you cant fall into a routine. But at the same time, you have to be willing to listen. Listening to people means recognising their share of anger and suffering. And thats something that will always belong to them. Im not here to promise happiness, but I can recognise this constant, this uniqueness: its the only way to respect them. And finally: France isnt cynical, but the elites think it is. France isnt made to be a postmodern country.

I listen to him saying such things theyre quite interesting and in any event he says them well. His voice is youthful and smooth, his sentences fluid, natural, persuasive. Sometimes I cant help smiling to myself, for example when he says hes a metic the ancient Greek word for a foreigner accorded some of the privileges of citizenship in the world of politics and the media. Thats the word he uses, metic, and you can see why it gives rise to smiles when its used to describe Emmanuel Macron. Why not pariah while were at it? So I listen, half under his spell OK, lets say three-quarters. And I remember the comment made by my fellow writer Michel Houellebecq: I tried to do an interview with him Frankly, getting people who talk very well to say something real, something true, is like pulling teeth


I continue to look for the flaw. Everyone has one a place of shadow and secrecy, a melancholic zone and as a writer, my job is to see them. With Macron, they dont exactly jump out at you. Nonetheless, Im sure they exist, or rather, I hope they exist. So I ask him what he thinks. The question throws him off a bit. He reflects, hesitates, then: My flaw? Maybe that Im claustrophobic He remains pensive, and for the first time I hear something like three dots between the words that file from his mouth in battle formation. Not in the physical sense: I dont have any listed phobias, but Im claustrophobic about life. I cant stand being shut in, I have to get out, thats why I cant have a normal life. Deep down, my flaw is no doubt that I dont love normal life.

To a certain extent, thats a good thing: the life of someone who wants to and does become president of the republic cannot be normal. And the interaction you have with him cant be normal either. But I dont let up, and go at the question from another angle. Philippe Besson, a French writer who knows him well, wrote a book about him aptly called Un Personnage de Roman, or a character from a novel, which contains the following description: This man, so warm, so physical, who knows so many people and whom so many people know, has no friends. Is that true? I ask. Hell go on to answer that its not exactly true, that although he has few real friends, he does have some, and that his private life is absolutely essential for him. But before he says these reasonable things, before reflecting at all, he blurts out: My best friend is my wife!

Its tempting to see Macron as a sort of cyborg, a seducing machine completely void of emotion. Its tempting, but no sooner has it occurred to you than youre obliged to think the opposite. Because theres no getting around the fact that the young, ambitious technocrat, the man who tells everyone what they want to hear, is also, at the same time, the hero of a grand love story. I think this story is what the French like most about him, particularly French women. Its a kind of revenge for centuries of patriarchy during which everyone found it normal for a man to be 24 years older than his wife, but not the other way around. And, taking this breach of convention to the extreme, the woman who is 24 years older than him seems perfectly at ease, and her husband loves her as much as he did when they first met.

Lets go over the file once again, from this almost mythological angle: Brigitte Auzire is from a solid, provincial, upper-middle class background, shes married to a banker (not an investment banker), and is the mother of three children. A French teacher, shes just been assigned to the Lyce la Providence, a Catholic school run by Jesuits in Amiens. In the staff room, all talk focuses on one pupil who dazzles everyone with his knowledge and intelligence: the young Macron. Hes 15, he too comes from a well-established, upper middle-class household, and his parents are both doctors. Hes good looking, with a pleasant manner and longish hair, and hes more comfortable in the company of his elders than he is with his classmates.

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Macron and his wife, Brigitte, celebrating his first-round election success in Paris in April. Photograph: Yoan Valat/EPA

Madame Auzire teaches a theatre class. He enrolls, and falls head over heels in love with her. It takes him two years to win her heart. Youre not serious when youre 17, runs a poem by Rimbaud. And, quoting the poet as she tells the story, she says with a laugh: He was very serious when he was 17. He was very serious when he convinced her that this was the love of their lives, and that she should leave her family to be with him. A high-school student who falls in love with his pretty teacher and ardently pledges his love to her isnt all that rare. Whats rarer is when, 22 years later, the high school student and his former teacher are still together, and the high school student is president of France.

I observe them on the flight to Athens. Theyre in the central block of the Falcon 7X jet, and from what I can see from where Im sitting three metres away, they touch each other non-stop. If he gets up to go to the toilet, he squeezes her shoulder in passing. He smiles at her, she lifts her head and smiles back. Their eyes seek each other out, find each other, often they hold hands. Its remarkable, moving even. But still: they display this intense closeness, this insatiable need for each other, as if they were forever posing for celebrity magazines. So you wonder: is some of this for show? Carefully staged storytelling? Maybe, but what would it be masking? What truth? What pact? When everything looks so harmonious on the surface, you cant help looking for the catch. At the same time, it seems clear that you cant fake this sort of thing not for that long, not all the time. You can go back and forth endlessly about how much of Macrons personality is authentic and how much is cooked up, but you need only see him and his wife together for half an hour to know that part of him is as true as can be, and that this element of truth is her.

I sat with Brigitte Macron on the way back from Athens, and started off our discussion on quite a bad note, because I was still puzzling over the question of flaws and melancholy. Clearly her husband views his life in terms of destiny, I said. Thats true, she confirmed. But since any real destiny must imply adversity and even defeat, I went on, I wondered what form adversity and defeat could take in the life of someone like Emmanuel Macron, and how she, his wife, imagined the proverbial retreat from Russia that necessarily awaited him because if such a fate didnt await him, he would not be a great man, not a hero. The more I proceeded with my gloomy, interminable question, the more Brigittes face, usually so open and buoyant, showed signs of dismay. But shes not someone to succumb to a passing mood for long. Glasses of champagne arrived just in time: it was the birthday of Tristan, one of her young staffers. At her prompting everyone burst into a chorus of Happy birthday to you! After that she said to Tristan, with a laugh and a shake of her blond hair: Were your present!, and it struck me that that must have gone down just as well in her classes in Amiens.

She had been one of those teachers that students love, to the point of hanging around after class to talk about Stendhal or Flaubert. Even though shes retired, she remains a teacher, and accepts with a smile that shes a bit of a pedant. Where others would say I dont want to talk in my husbands place, she said something Ive never heard anyone else say: I dont like prosopopoeia. (Just in case you dont know, prosopopoeia is a figure of speech in which an absent person, or even an abstract thing, speaks.) Coming back to my question, she let me know kindly that both she and her husband faced their share of adversity. I cant honestly say weve had to deal with defeat, but weve had our share of adversity. To live a love like ours, weve had to harden ourselves against malicious remarks, mockery and gossip. Weve had to stand shoulder to shoulder, be courageous and joyful. And she was joyful when she said it, just as joyful and likable as everyone told me she would be. (Everyone loves her.)

To wind up our conversation, she told me a charming story about her theatre class. She and the young Macron are looking for a play to stage together. Theres one they like, by the Neapolitan playwright Eduardo De Filippo already quite a demanding choice. The problem is that the play only has five characters, and there are 25 students in the class. No problem: the young Macron rewrites it, inventing the 20 missing roles. They still have a video of the performance that Brigitte would like to watch one day but, she says, her husband has asked her to wait so they can view it together.

Like many people I know, Ive witnessed three phases with Macron. During the campaign, I thought: Somethings happening. When the elections rolled around, I thought: Id like to see him win. At the same time, I knew that my vote was a class vote: it was normal for privileged people to vote for Macron. And now that hes in power, I think: It would be good if he succeeds. But what would that entail? That he makes history? That he transforms France? That he turns it into a country of startups where everyone is their own entrepreneur, and the only thing that matters is efficiency? And that after that, he transforms Europe, because at some point France is just going to seem too small for him?

All of that is possible. Or rather: not impossible. He could also go crazy thats a risk you run when you get so much power so fast. Or, quite simply, he could fail, and join the crowd of ambitious politicians who sought the third way, stumbled over messy reality, and wound up administrating like everyone else. Thats his big worry, I believe. Thats what makes him say: If I dont radically transform France, itll be worse than if I did nothing at all. In the meantime, he is ready to write roles for the whole country, provided Brigitte and he will be directing the play.

Translated by John Lambert

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