Next came the two tribute ceremonies – for Jules Ferry, then for Pierre and Marie Curie – but the inauguration day wasn’t over yet. The last item on the agenda was the President-elect’s welcome at the Paris Town Hall. It was incredibly moving. The huge crowd on Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville was warm and welcoming. Granted, there was something grotesque about the whole situation: François Hollande and the Mayor of Paris in two huge grandiose armchairs, looking more regal than republican – and the Deputy Mayor and me sat behind them … But there were so many friendly faces!
When we left, Jean-Marc Ayrault told me how happy he was to become Prime Minister. It was not official yet but it was an open secret. François had not hesitated for a second, he had made his choice a long time ago. He appreciated his loyalty and did not want to be in anyone’s shadow. Ayrault fitted the bill perfectly.
Everything was timed to the minute. We returned to the Élysée and finally got a chance to visit properly. I discovered the President’s office, which I had never seen during my seventeen years of political journalism. I had been into the adjacent green living room, which used to be Jacques Attali’s office when he was François Mitterrand’s adviser. Jacques Chirac used to hold ‘off-the-record’ briefings in that ‘green room’. I had been to a few of those meetings, generally ahead of state visits. But walking into the President’s office with François was far more emotional.
We visited a few other offices. Then we were led to our private apartment. Carla had told me: ‘You’ll love it, I had the whole place redone.’ It was a sumptuous apartment – at once spacious and impersonal. In any case we planned to continue to live in our own flat on rue Cauchy. In fact, I returned to our flat that very evening – as soon as I had met the Élysée maîtres d’. I was alone that evening as François had gone to Berlin, to have dinner with the German Chancellor.
I got home in a state of exhaustion and feverish excitement at the same time. I switched the television on but couldn’t concentrate and kept channel-hopping. Flashes of the unbelievable day we had just had were running through my mind.
Then I heard that François’ plane had been hit by lightning and had had to change its route and land in Paris. François had been forced to board another Falcon to continue his journey. I felt like I too had been hit by thunder: I had not heard from him. Five minutes later I got a call from the Secretary General of the Élysée. We barely knew each other but I got a good vibe from him. He told me that François was well.
I was not. I could not understand why François had not called me to reassure me. Not even a text message. Would there now be filters between us instead of a direct link? Would he always be so absorbed by his new life that he could not spare a thought for me? How could he not know how much I would worry when I heard about the incident?
Luckily I had planned to spend the evening with friends – I did not want to spend the evening alone after such an extraordinary day. There were about ten of us and we danced and partied. It was my hen party, except that it was my life as a free woman we were bidding goodbye to, rather than my single life. In the company of friends, the tension that had built up during the day dissolved.
In the end, François and I both got home more or less at the same time, around 2 a.m. He briefly delivered his first impressions on Angela Merkel and told me he had not wanted to worry me unnecessarily by mentioning the plane incident. I knew we were both thinking about the same thing: a fright we had had together during the 2004 regional elections campaign. At the time, I was just a journalist accompanying the First Secretary of the Socialist Party. We flew to Brittany in a flimsy little plane – the very definition of what you might call an old crate. The weather conditions were extremely unfavourable and the closer we got to our destination, the stronger the wind blew. The pilot was reluctant to land – the cabin was being badly shaken as it was. François encouraged him to take the risk. It occurred to me that we could die.
We have talked about that day many times since, about how we could have died together without ever having loved one another. We spoke of it again, at 2 a.m., on the night after François’ swearing in. François and I did not see death the same way: he feared it above all else. He is one of those men who build themselves a destiny precisely in an attempt to escape the fate that awaits every man. To leave a mark, to survive one way or another. To make it into books and to make history. It was his personal quest for immortality. He refused to talk about death, he did not know how to behave around dying people and the terminally ill. They scared him and he avoided them. He also avoided people who were going through personal tragedies, as though grief were a contagious disease.
I became aware of this when we found out about his mother’s serious illness, during the 2007 campaign: he asked me to call her to see how she was. He could not deal with hearing the news first-hand, he was unable to face it head on.
When he asked me that, I had not yet met his mother, Nicole; I had only spoken to her on the phone. A few years earlier I had been assigned to write a profile of François for Paris-Match. Her son had told her I could be trusted, so she had agreed to speak to me. Things got off to a good start between us and she opened up to me. I remember writing in my profile of François Hollande that he was ‘abnormally normal’…
In 2006, he had asked me to call his mother a second time … to tell her about our romantic involvement. He did not feel up to doing it himself. This sort of announcement is an important moment in a person’s lifetime. It went well: Nicole was happy to hear that her son was happy, especially as her own relationship with Ségolène Royal had hardly been plain sailing over the years.
I called Nicole nearly every day throughout the 2007 campaign.
I met François’ parents over the summer of 2007. They welcomed me with open arms. We also went to visit them for the weekend in Cannes. But Nicole’s illness kept progressing and the more her health deteriorated, the more François struggled to talk to her directly. The end of her life was terrible. There was nothing to do but to wait for the fatal outcome.
After a long stay at the clinic, Nicole was eventually discharged and cared for by a nurse at her home. Philippe, François’ eldest brother, spent his nights at her bedside. We took over on the weekends, though it was very little compared to what Philippe did during the week. We stayed in the same room as Nicole at night, by her side. It was impossible to sleep – we could hear her death rattles and spent the night wondering whether she might be breathing her last breath. To François, touching the body that had carried him was unthinkable, but his mother’s skin was very dry and cracked. He asked me to apply moisturising cream as decency prevented him from doing it himself. I did it. I was touched and surprised by his gratitude: ‘I will never leave you, you are so kind to my mother,’ he said. It is natural to care for your mother-in-law if you love her son, as the bond that ties them together is so strong.
The call we were dreading from Philippe came on a weekday. He asked us to come as quickly as we could. He was convinced that the end was near. As I remember it, it was a Wednesday. François had some commitments and wanted to wait until Saturday and convince his children to pay a last visit to their grandmother. Two of them agreed on the condition that I would not be there. Their parents’ official separation was only a few months old and the wound was still raw. I took a step back to give them the space they needed.
On the morning the three of them had planned to leave, the phone rang very early. Nicole had passed away. Philippe and François both cried on the phone. The children cancelled their trip and in the end I was the one who went with François so that he could see the body of the mother he loved so dearly.
The cremation took place three days later but I was not allowed to attend because the children would be there.
I will never forget François’ face when he returned to rue Cauchy… He had warned me that he would be bringing his mother’s ashes back to Paris for the funeral. I bought five bouquets of white flowers and placed them on top of the chest of draw
ers Nicole had given us, along with a picture of her. It was a sort of altar for her ashes, until the service two days later.
François rang the doorbell. The box containing the ashes was in a supermarket plastic bag. I cannot begin to describe the expression on his face. I have never seen it on anyone else. Distraught is far too weak a word. He was in shock, traumatised, devastated. He was moved by the flowers.
The next day we went to organise the funeral together. We met the priest and saw where she would be buried in the Saint-Ouen cemetery. I still did not know whether I would be allowed to attend the service. Until now his children had consistently refused to meet me.
I was so worried that I would be cast aside, that I would not be allowed to share this moment with him, that I could not bear the thought of asking François directly. Eventually I was forced to bring it up, as he had not. As was often the case, he preferred things to remain unspoken. When I asked him, he said that in his mind it went without saying that I should be there.
Notwithstanding, my attendance at the service continued to be problematic for the children. Until the last minute we were not certain whether they would be there. When we entered the church, François said: ‘The family will sit here, on the left. You sit on the other side.’
So a couple was not ‘family’. I took it on the chin – it was his mother’s funeral, I had no right to make his life difficult on such a day. And so I found myself sitting alone on the right-hand side of the church.
After the service, he went to wait for his children outside the church. I do not know exactly what happened. He eventually returned, with his four children in tow. He was joyful and grief-stricken all at once. Immensely sad about his mother and incredibly happy that his children were there, that they agreed to enter the church even though I was there.
After the ceremony, he ignored me and did not introduce his children to me. I took the initiative of greeting them myself and they did not reject me. The eldest of his daughters even came for lunch at rue Cauchy with the rest of François’ family – cousins I had not yet met. That mournful day marked the beginning of the normalisation of our situation.
In those days of grieving, François’ pain touched me. As a mother to three boys I was deeply moved to see a 57-year-old man so affected by the death of his mother. I also guessed that he would now feel relieved of the burden of his mother’s judgement, which he had always feared. He would no longer need to seek her approval.
She had loved him so! No one had ever held out such a flattering mirror for him. Death pushes everyone to the front line – we stand alone to face our fate. It is a violent uprooting but it also frees you.
On the day François was elected, it was Nicole he thought of, first and foremost. I sensed it so I bought flowers and set aside an hour in his agenda – with his secretary acting as my accomplice. We went to the cemetery early in the morning – there was not a paparazzo in sight to ruin the moment. As always when we went to the cemetery, I let him have a moment alone at his mother’s graveside. She was the person who had given life to him, and so much more. The person who had given him his joie de vivre.
What was going through his mind in that moment – a moment that is unlike any other? No doubt he thought about everything he owed to her. About how he missed her presence and support in this turning point in his life, this moment when his life and his fate collided.
I remember the long conversations François and I used to have when Nicole first got ill. We would talk about everything Nicole wanted for us. She had said something lovely about us: ‘I have had to wait for both of my sons to be over fifty to see them so deeply in love.’
At that time Philippe had also started over, with Caroline. Just before she passed away, Nicole said: ‘I can die happy, since both of my sons are happy.’
On the day of his inauguration, François’ thoughts went out to his mother again.
After the madness of the inauguration, we both needed to get some sleep. Since the first round of the presidential elections we had slept very little: the days were jam-packed so that fatigue had built up for both of us, not to mention our nights of insomnia, which rarely coincided.
François had been waking up in the night every single night since the Socialist primaries. His sleep pattern was completely skewed. François does not let anyone see what haunts him, but at night it takes over. The fear of losing, mainly. The burden and responsibilities if he did become President. He knew that any external event could be a game-changer. Until D-day nothing was a given.
Late May 2014
A dismal 3 per cent of voters say they would vote for François Hollande if he were to run again in 2017. He has become a laughing stock once more, just as he was four years ago. I am pained to witness such an incredible waste, angry at that self-sabotage. Obviously in a private capacity but also as a Socialist Party voter. How could he have reached that low point? How could he have fallen to 3 per cent again? Memories flood me, like bubbles rising up to the surface.
Back to square one: when he was preparing to become a candidate in the presidential election and nobody had any faith in him. He was the only one who believed he could pull it off. As for me, I was prepared to follow him to the end of the world and back. It all began one morning in November 2010. While he was getting dressed in our room, he mentioned running for President.
It was not a subject we had previously discussed. I knew it was his goal and that was how we would sometimes broach it, with that euphemism, ‘the goal’. We had never spelled it out, we had never spoken the words ‘presidential election’. He veiled his ambition in modesty. We had only lifted the taboo once, as he drove us past rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in my car. ‘Look, we’re driving past home’ he said as we passed the Élysée Palace. It certainly came as a surprise, and I roared with laughter. He had always known how to make me laugh. No subject was too serious to joke about, including himself – he was a genius at self-deprecation.
That November morning was altogether different: there was not a hint of sarcasm in his eyes. He was serious and he asked me for the first time what I thought: ‘After what happened in 2002 and 2007, you cannot afford to get it wrong. If Ségolène Royal’s defeat has taught us anything it is that you have only one question to ask yourself. Either you think you are the best and you go for it, or you don’t and you let somebody else stand.’ He did not hesitate for one second before answering: ‘I am the best.’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘put your money where your mouth is.’
We continued to talk. He had no doubts about his abilities. He was always convinced that he would prevail over Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who at the time was a Socialist Party candidate and was leading in the polls by a long way. François was convinced that Ségolène Royal would not run if he did. He had let her have her go in 2007 and this time it was his turn.
He had been preparing his candidacy with the utmost discretion. He had started from the very bottom of the pecking order. In 2008, following the disastrous Reims Congress, François was completely discredited. Ségolène Royal was blaming him for her defeat in the presidential elections. Any debacle calls for a scapegoat and this time it had landed on him. Everyone wanted to turn the Hollande page and move on to a new chapter. Eleven years of him leading the Socialist Party was more than enough!
Just before the Reims Congress I decided to do something for him, for us: I bought a new car. I swapped my old Clio for a Renault Mégane. I went to the car dealer to get a new car straight away. I did not choose the colour, I took what they had in stock – I would have been more particular if I had been buying a pair of shoes.
I had a plan. I wanted him to hold his head up high as he stood down as First Secretary of the Socialist Party. I wanted us to be seen leaving together in my new car – symbolising a new life, a new start. Basically I wanted him to publicly own up to our relationship.
At the last moment, he refused to do it. François’ succession was a failure, marred by in-fighting. The run-off between t
he contenders to take the helm of the Socialist Party was turning into a psychodrama – Martine Aubry, Bertrand Delanoë and Ségolène Royal were accusing one another of cheating. In the end, it was Martine Aubry who won – but at what cost? The Socialist Party seemed to be on its uppers.
François decided to walk out through the back door, without trumpeting it in the news. There were no cameras waiting for him. I came to pick him up where he had asked me to meet him. Where no one could see him leave with me…
The next two years were the best years we spent living together. The press said he was unhappy and depressed, they said his political career was over. I did not see the same man they saw. He spent three days a week in Corrèze and the rest of the time we were together. I was in a safe and dull little box at Paris-Match – far from political journalism. François wasn’t overbooked any more; he no longer had a chauffeur. We lived in our flat on rue Cauchy – he had chosen it himself. We took our time furnishing it, we made time to live, to ‘take care of us’ as he said. As if nothing else mattered. He would often say: ‘We are going to build a nice life for ourselves.’
François made every minute count. The François I loved passionately at that time was made for happiness. He did not like arguments or sulking between lovers, he disliked anything that could spoil a day, an hour or even a minute. Life was infinitely precious to him.
He was gifted like nobody else at using irony and humour to turn my mood around and put things right. He made me laugh even when I did not want to. He had that amazing quality of seeing only the positive side of things. He devoured life with an uncommon and uplifting optimism.
Back then we would go off on adventures together, listening to our CDs in the car. He could dance the ‘sirtaki’ to Dalida, even behind the wheel. Just to make me laugh. And laugh I did. I had never laughed so much in my life. Once a week, we would go and lie on the grass somewhere. I took him to places he had never been before. It was with me that he discovered the beauty of the banks of the Loire River – my turf. I made a man who swore only by the Mediterranean and raw sun love the powerful Atlantic tides. He showed me around the villages in his constituency and took me to the Lot region – a place bathed in a golden light.
Thank You for This Moment Page 12