Every day I was made increasingly aware of the fact that our daily life would never be the same again.
The next day my son announced that he wanted to live somewhere else, that he could not stand the pressure any longer. Within twenty-four hours I found some friends who agreed to let him live in their studio. I was devastated to see him go while he was in the middle of sitting his exams.
One more crack had appeared – and it was only day two after the election.
Inauguration day was approaching. François’ team had contacted Nicolas Sarkozy’s team to prep the transition. I followed from afar. I received a text message from Carla Bruni-Sarkozy asking me if I would keep the personal service team: they were ‘wonderful people – with them you needn’t bother twirling your spoon in your coffee’. I explained that we did not plan on keeping the Élysée fully staffed: it was not François Hollande’s style and did not fit with his vision. Much less mine. In any event, Carla and I agreed to see each other during the traditional talk between the two Presidents in the handover of power – to discuss housekeeping matters together.
THE GUEST LIST had to be drawn up for the presidential inauguration. François wanted to avoid a repeat of Nicolas Sarkozy’s inauguration – the blended family treading the red carpet rolled out across the Cour d’honneur. As a result, François did not want his children or mine to attend. He did not even want his father to be there.
He organised a dinner with his four children – and asked me not to be there – so he could explain his decision to them in person and address the delicate matter of Ségolène Royal’s presence: she was both a female frontrunner in politics and his former partner. Her presence would be interpreted on a personal level no matter what, and François did not want to enter the Élysée regally, mixing public and private life – ironic as that may now seem.
The decision not to invite his family was his, not mine. I told him it struck me as rather cruel for his children. Meanwhile, I did not dare invite my mother, who would have loved to be there.
People simply could not understand why Ségolène Royal and her children were not at François Hollande’s inauguration. His children knew what was what but the press blamed his decision on me. Article after article accused me of attempting to sideline the mother of the President’s children. No one seemed to notice that neither my children nor my family were there either. Not that François ever spoke up to defend me and own up to the fact that it was his own decision – a decision he made on principle.
Every step of the way, another chapter of the media novel was penned – based on erroneous interpretations and misunderstandings. That sum of minor discrepancies between reality and fiction created a media monster that was out of control. By dint of repetition, the media fiction ended up becoming the truth in people’s mind. The press authored a novel with a character who was supposed to be me. I, however, did not recognise that fictional version of me in the slightest.
But the First Lady has no right to speak in public or defend herself.
I met the protocol team and was given a detailed runthrough of François’ inauguration day – complete with print-outs. Everything would be timed, carefully designed and prepared. I began to grasp just how out of the ordinary this event was. The stress started to build up inside me.
It was the eve before the big day. François and I barely saw each other. François was still caught up in the throes of politics. Everything was happening in fast forward; he had dozens of decisions to make each day.
My preoccupations were certainly lighter – my outfit, for example. I wanted it to be sober. I had never worn haute couture and, even though France is home to a flurry of couture houses, it never occurred to me to knock on their doors.
Amor, the stylist who had been dressing me for television, still gave me advice for free. On this occasion too, he helped me. We chose a Georges Rech dress – a designer label I was used to wearing. The dress needed alterations – sleeves were added and it was lengthened. I had a dress fitting the evening before the inauguration and it did not hang the way I wanted. There was very little time for more alternations but Amor promised it would be ready in time for the next morning.
It was not a restful night and we did not get much sleep. François was to be officially sworn in seventh President of the Fifth Republic. In the morning we each got ready in separate rooms. We both went through the hands of a stylist, a make-up artist and a hairdresser as if we were going to the town hall to be married. We had already been asked hundreds of times whether we were going to get married. Frankly, I had the feeling that what we were about to experience was going to be much more intense than going to the town hall. I felt completely in sync with him, I could never have imagined in a million years what would happen nineteen months later. It was unthinkable after everything we had lived through together. We were inseparable.
I had to leave a few minutes ahead of him and appeared in front of him, dressed and ready. He complimented me and I knew he was being sincere: a woman in love knows when she is able to surprise the man she loves. François looked at me with shiny eyes. The only thing he disapproved of was the height of my heels – he could not stand me being taller than him. One last kiss and I left the flat. We had always known how to communicate more with our eyes than with words. We communicated through gestures, too. When he took my hand and squeezed it, I knew what it meant.
I took a seat in the back of ‘my’ new car. From that point onwards, I would be flanked with a driver and two security officers – two duos alternated every other week – everywhere I went. There are no words to describe what I felt when the car went through the gates of the Élysée Palace. I had often been there as a journalist.
None of it had hit home yet. I could not get used to the idea that I was the First Lady of France. The First Lady’s role is to project a certain image of France, to represent France, but she has no official status. It is such a strange role, but it matters in the eyes of the French people. Many did not recognise me as the First Lady because François and I were not married. Subconsciously, I probably took that on board.
The sheer mass of photographers was mind-blowing. As I took my first steps on the red carpet I could hear my name being called from all sides: ‘Valérie’ and ‘Madame Trierweiler’. I was nervous but I managed to smile. Posing for the cameras is not something that comes easily to me, I struggle to look natural. I don’t enjoy it, it is not my strong point.
I recognised a few familiar faces among the photographers. In a twenty-year career at Paris-Match, I had met a lot of photographers and even worked with some of those who were at the inauguration. But this time it was a different matter entirely. They were not interested in their colleague the journalist. It was François Hollande’s partner they wanted: the First Lady.
I was barely aware of what was happening as I took my first steps as the new First Lady of France. The images would become part of history: for decades, at each new election, the TV footage would be playing in a loop. I was overcome with emotion when I saw François’ car arrive – when I heard the sound of the gravel under the tyres. He was a different man in my eyes.
Nicolas Sarkozy welcomed him, while Carla greeted me. The two men, who had known each other for years, walked up to the President’s office for the official handover of power, the transmission of nuclear launch codes and of sensitive dossiers. François would later tell me that the exchange from head of state to head of state was extremely brief. Most of that conversation remained private. Nicolas Sarkozy shared with him just how painful his five-year term had been for Carla, how she had struggled with the excessive media scrutiny and scandalmongering. He confessed that he had called on specialist companies to increase the visibility of honourable mentions and positive articles about Carla; he had been forced to use search engine optimisation to shield his wife from the nastiness that was circulating on the internet.
While the two men talked, Carla showed me around the ‘Madame wing’, which would become my own. A sumpt
uous office, called the Fougères living room,13 awaited me. It had a view on the Élysée gardens, and used to be Caroline Murat’s room – better known as Caroline Bonaparte, a younger sister of Napoleon Bonaparte. The office was spacious, light and feminine with its flowery hangings. On one wall hung a portrait of Louis XV. Two paintings by Hubert Robert, an eighteenth-century painter, hung on the wall opposite – I later learned that the paintings used to decorate François Mitterrand’s room. Cécilia Sarkozy had turned that living room into an office before her divorce from Nicolas Sarkozy. Bernadette Chirac had chosen a darker room, with a view on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. It was the one my Chief of Staff Patrice Biancone – the only person I asked to recruit – eventually chose. Carla explained that she had only been in this office a couple of times. We sat down in the living room next door, which one of my sons would call the Gaddafi living room because of the green sofas and hangings.
Carla and I had a frank and sincere discussion. I felt no animosity towards her. Quite the contrary. I had bought her first album when it came out and my ex-husband used to listen to it on repeat. During the campaign months, without having met, she and I had both adopted a non-aggression pact. I strongly feel that women and children should be spared in political jousts, just like in times of war. Carla Bruni-Sarkozy has never spoken ill of me in public and I have never criticised her either.
She explained how trying her husband’s mandate had been. There were tears in her eyes: ‘I shouldn’t say it, but I am happy all this is over. It will be easier for you because journalists are your friends.’ I replied that unfortunately things would probably not be as simple as that.
‘I am worried that without politics my husband will lose his meaning in life,’ she said.
At that point, I had known Nicolas Sarkozy for over two decades. I first interviewed him in the ’90s and bumped into him again very often after that. The last time I had seen him was shortly after he was elected President, in June 2007. Governor General Michaëlle Jean was visiting a Canadian cemetery in Normandy, along with the Canadian delegation, and I was covering the event for Paris-Match. When Nicolas Sarkozy arrived, he welcomed each member of the delegation personally. I was greeted with: ‘How are you? Have you solved your problems?’
At the time, it was a poorly kept media secret that I was living with François. Following Nicolas Sarkozy’s victory, Ségolène Royal had made an AFP statement that acknowledged the situation: ‘I have asked François Hollande to leave the family home.’
I responded respectfully: ‘All is well, thank you, Mr President.’ He took the fact that I used the formal ‘vous’ for a mark of defiance. I was merely respecting both protocol and his new status as President of the Republic. He insisted on addressing me with the informal ‘tu’, but I kept my responses sober and polite.
Sometime later I felt it was safe to attend the President’s New Year Wishes to the press – a yearly ritual for French presidents. It was January 2008, my relationship with François Hollande was now out in the open – we had been together for over two years but we had kept it under wraps until after the outcome of the presidential elections, mostly for Ségolène Royal’s sake. It was no longer a secret for anyone. I looked on as several of my notoriously left-wing colleagues elbowed each other to shake Nicolas Sarkozy’s hand. I was not one of them.
Later, as Sarkozy was heading to his office, he spotted me waiting to get my coat back from the cloakroom and whispered in my ear: ‘I saw some pretty nice pictures of you in Voici.’
So the President had time to read glossy gossip magazines … François and I had indeed been papped during a romantic New Year’s break on a small island in Thailand.
This anecdote illustrates my familiarity with ‘Sarkozy, the political animal’. So when Carla shared her fear that her husband might be losing his meaning in life, I answered: ‘I am not going to tell you who your husband is but I know high-level politicians – I live with one of them. Those men will never be able to quit politics.’
I have always been convinced – back then, as I am now – that in spite of what he said, Sarkozy would be a candidate in 2017. He will want his return match.
Carla and I continued chatting, as two friends might. She shared the small victory it had been to finally fit into the trouser suit she was wearing that day, as she was struggling to lose her pregnancy weight. She also told me how much she had suffered from the attacks against her on the internet. Several times over the course of our conversation she was teary-eyed. I asked her to show me pictures of her children.
Time flew by. We spent thirty-eight minutes together and we could have talked for longer but José – the Chief of Protocol who would advise me on etiquette, as he had done for Bernadette Chirac, Cécilia Sarkozy and Carla Bruni-Sarkozy – came in to inform us that the two Presidents had finished their talk.
We went to meet the two men in the Hall. Sarkozy said a few polite words to me, using the formal ‘vous’. He too told me how hard it was on the family. And then, there we were, the four of us on the front steps of the Élysée Palace. Naturally I kissed Carla on the cheek. François shook hands with both of them.
He did not walk the now former President to his car. This potential affront to his predecessor was later much discussed and publicised. But I knew François. He was simply not fully familiar with the rules of savoir vivre – it would take time for him to get used to protocol. And he was in a hurry. Very much in a hurry to get to the next part: his official inauguration. In fact he turned on his heels without waiting for me either.
We headed to the Hall of Festivities, where François’ inauguration was to take place. As part of the new President’s swearing in, the President of the Constitutional Council places the Collar of the Grand Master of the Legion of Honour around his neck.
I stood to François’ right, behind him. I could not concentrate on his speech, which I had not read beforehand. In the pictures I appear to be gazing into space – everything still seemed so surreal to me. I can now recall a few sentences from his speech: two years later as they echo in my mind, they have a different ring altogether. ‘Confidence is about setting the example.’ And ‘State power will be exercised with dignity.’
At that moment, François impressed me. He seemed strong and wilful. He was in his role, in his function, wearing the costume. I was proud to be by his side, proud to see the man I loved meet his destiny, even though no one had believed he would.
After his speech, François went to greet the constitutional bodies and the guests. The Chief of Protocol signalled that I should follow him. I did as he did and shook outreached hands. Most of the faces were familiar – I had met these men and women through work – and there were even people who were close to me.
Unbeknown to me, I had committed a crime! That very evening, the press and some of the President’s advisers rebuked me for having dared to greet these constitutional bodies, leaders and representatives of all the French institutions. I read that it wasn’t my role. It had never been done, apparently. I had followed the Chief of Protocol’s lead. But I had not followed all the rules of etiquette, because I did not know them all. To say hello and shake hands seemed more polite than not to do so.
Élysée customs were to remain impenetrable to me, especially meeting and greeting: when I did not shake hands, I was criticised for being cold and haughty; when I did, I was given bad press for thinking too highly of myself. I could not win. Eventually, I took to standing a couple of metres behind François and greeting people with a mere nod, sometimes a smile.
François’ inauguration day was jam-packed. It was a cloudy day and rain started pouring down just before François’ parade on the Champs-Élysées. The car had been ordered especially, a Citroën DS5 hybrid with a sunroof, and François absolutely refused to take an umbrella.
I left a few minutes before him to wait for him at the top of the Champs-Élysées. In spite of the downpour, seeing him drive up the avenue was an indescribably intense moment. It echoed so many ot
her mythical images.
The rain was beating down and it was very windy, I was shivering, trying to shelter myself as best I could under the Arc de Triomphe. The wind kept lifting my wrap dress so that I had to hold it down to avoid giving the photographers an eyeful. (They did manage to get a shot eventually – at the Jules Ferry homage, by the monument dedicated to his memory in the Tuileries gardens.)
After the ceremony under the Arc de Triomphe, the new President went to wave to the crowd. The Chief of Protocol had decided we would then drive down the Champs-Élysées from one end to the other in François’ car. I did not know what to do when François went off to shake some hands without waiting for me. Should I follow him? Should I stand out in the cold looking like an idiot?
François’ car followed him as he paced down the Champs-Élysées shaking hands. No one told me what to do. I tried to catch up with the Citroën DS5 as I would have been left behind if not… The critics were right, I clearly influenced the President’s every move…
Once we got back to the Élysée, I had to insist for ten minutes before François would agree to change into a new suit before lunch. To say that he was soaked would be an understatement. He grumbled and it was only when I pointed out that it would be a shame for him to be ill at the very start of his presidential mandate that he finally heeded my suggestion.
We were in a room near the Portrait Room, where the lunch was meant to be held and the former socialist prime ministers and their spouses were expecting us. It had been my idea to organise this get-together. It was my only contribution to the organisation of François’ inauguration day.
François had initially thought of inviting his loyal gang of ‘Hollandaise’ followers. Naturally his few early-day supporters deserved to be there. But I warned him that inviting just his entourage would contradict his electoral promise to bring about a ‘kinder, gentler, more inclusive France’ and might project a ‘cliquey’ image of the new President.
Thank You for This Moment Page 11