Later, in her office in the town of Poitiers, in west-central France, Royal warmed to her theme, referring to the German election of Chancellor Angela Merkel. "In France, we are saying, ‘If Germany has done it, we can do it too.’"
The soft voice belies a core of steel. In opinion polls, this elegant mother of four has consistently scored higher than any other politician and, were she the candidate in an election today, could be expected to win. The emergence of Ségo, as they often refer to the 52-year-old Royal, has rattled male politicians, highlighting a surprisingly chauvinistic streak in a country so progressive in other domains. "They’re afraid," says Royal, who dismisses as "dinosaurs" the men in her own Socialist political family who have poured scorn on her presidential hopes. "They’re afraid I am going to take their place."
They have every reason to be. From the rejection of the EU constitution to mass rioting and protests, the French are in an unforgiving mood as they prepare for a presidential election in just over a year. They are fed up with the male-dominated elite, the familiar cast of politicians, from the outgoing centre-right President Jacques Chirac to the wrinkly Socialist luminary Jack Lang – the former minister with the all-year tan – who have dominated the political landscape for more than two decades. Could the time have come for an unorthodox female leader in a country that has never before had a woman as head of state?
Perhaps. France might have some of the world’s most dynamic companies, but it is in dreadful shape. The economy grew by a mere 1.4% in 2005, and wealth per person has been overtaken by Britain’s and Ireland’s. While many of the brightest emigrate in search of better job opportunities – London is one of the favourite destinations – the state is piling up debt to support the rising health and retirement costs of an ageing population and mass unemployment: almost a quarter of potential workers under 26 are on the dole, compared with 13% in Britain. And as public debt increases, France’s shrinking population currently works shorter hours than those in most advanced countries. Something has to give.
According to Michel Pébereau, chairman of the BNP Paribas bank, debt could soar from the current 65% to 100% of GDP by 2014, resulting in a "foreseeable reduction of our capacity to create jobs and wealth". Or as François Bayrou, a centre-right politician, put it, "If it [France] were a company, it would already have been declared bankrupt. If it were a family, the bailiffs would be banging at the door."
He believes part of the problem is that France has never been properly "déMarxisé": a recent opinion poll found that 66% of the British agree that the free market is the best available system, but the number is only 36% in France, one of the few countries left in the world where the Communist party is still respected.
The strong dirigiste state is virtually a religion, and more than one quarter of all jobs are still in the public sector. Suspicion of money and profit runs deep. Even supposedly Conservative politicians such as Chirac see Britain’s economic model as "free-market misery". Efforts at even modest reform have repeatedly foundered on fears that the "French way" is under attack and that the country’s soul will be drowned in the torrent of globalisation. In this climate, can any leader find a new way forward to deliver France from the crisis?
Royal and Nicolas Sarkozy, the interior minister who is her most likely rival in an election, believe they can. Both are politicians outside the usual mould. This could make them the protagonists in one of the most significant contests of modern French history: "Ségo vs Sarko". Both are in their early fifties – extraordinarily young for French presidential candidates – and both are at odds with their parties, a detail that complicates life considerably for Royal, considering that she lives with François Hollande, the Socialist leader.
She has always had an unconventional streak, and has lived with Hollande for three decades without marrying him. They met at the Ecole National d’Administration, or ENA, a nursery for the ruling elite. Though she shares the same technocratic background as the older generation of politicians, her respect for the way Tony Blair modernised his party puts her at odds with their conventional wisdom. She has praised the "flexibility" with which he brought down unemployment, and disdains the Anglophobia so common these days in her own party. "I hate the way he has been demonised over here," she says. In addition, in a country hardly known for its puritanical streak, her social conservatism has also made her controversial. Her opposition to single-sex families, which has alienated the gay vote, goes against party orthodoxy, as does her recent campaign against advertisements for thong underwear. She has carved out her own niche in economic matters too. Unlike other socialists, she has criticised the wastefulness of the 35-hour week and denounced the "squandering" of public money.
Sarkozy, for his part, has already changed French politics with the introduction of what are widely derided as "Anglo-Saxon" policies such as "zero-tolerance policing" and "American-style" campaigning techniques. The son of a Hungarian immigrant, he can delight in not being an énarque, as they refer to graduates from ENA. "I am for the total reconstruction of France," he says, advocating what he calls a complete "rupture" with the past.
This will not be easy, however, judging by the experiences of Dominique de Villepin, the prime minister vying with Sarkozy for the centre-right presidential nomination. De Villepin’s attempt to inject a bit more flexibility into the rigid labour market hardly amounts to Sarkozy’s bold "rupture", but even this bit of tinkering recently brought the country to a standstill in a series of demonstrations and strikes. The contrat première embauche (CPE), or first employment contract, was an attempt to encourage employers to take on more young workers by giving them the power to sack them without notice if they had been employed for under two years. In so doing, he united both those young French people who were opposed to change and wanted the state to guarantee them a future, and those youngsters from the ghettos who felt excluded at a much deeper level. This failure to convince the very people who might benefit from such a law rules out any more serious reforming before the elections, and might even conspire against a reform package being introduced after the vote. De Villepin may be to blame for botching a long-overdue rendezvous with renewal. How could he have got it so wrong?
The answer may lie in observing France’s prime minister at work and play. He epitomises an elite removed from the everyday lives of his own citizens. In February this year, I travelled with him on an official visit to Moscow to meet Vladimir Putin. The temperature outside was -12C, and though it was only 10am, inside the French Embassy servants were handing around glasses of vodka to ward off the cold. De Villepin, a tall, silver-haired figure, was locked in animated conversation with Sergei Ivanov, the Russian defence minister. They were talking in Spanish, one of the languages they have in common. De Villepin did not let slip any opportunity to flaunt his linguistic skills – and general brilliance. Even recent events may fail to dent his astounding confidence. He has written books – about history, mainly – and poetry. He has a beautiful wife and two children: a son named Arthur, after Rimbaud, the poet, and a daughter who has modelled for Elle. Admirers claim he is irresistible to women. From this lofty height, he is said to look down his nose at members of parliament – the prime minister calls them "connards", or arseholes – preferring the company of writers and intellectuals. Put a curly wig on him and de Villepin would no doubt feel at home in an 18th-century Parisian salon. A career diplomat, he graduated from the ENA in the same year as Royal but, unlike her, has never been elected to public office.
