Sego-Sarko.(The Talk of the Town)

For a nation trembling in the balance, the France that awoke on May 6th was not looking too rough. Paris, in particular, lolled on a dazzling Sunday, as if the second round of the Presidential election, between the Socialist Segolene Royal and the champion of the right, Nicolas Sarkozy--"Sego-Sarko," in its most abrupt form--were no more than a passing cloud. At noon, on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, a melee arose, but closer inspection revealed it to be a swarm of Ukrainian worshippers emerging from Mass. True political ferment was to be found eight hundred yards away, at the mairie of the Seventh Arrondissment, where crowds of two or three strolled through the gates to vote. Luc Ferry, the philosopher, former Minister of Education, and author of "What Is a Successful Life?," arrived with two flawless children and a wife in three-inch heels.

The first round of the election had been a free-for-all, with a roster of candidates that included the leader of the Fishing, Hunting, Nature, and Traditions Party; a Communist postman of undisputed charm; and an anti-globalizing farmer whose mustache alone appeared to be the product of an agricultural subsidy. With the list trimmed to two, a frantic fortnight ensued, with a strict campaigning budget--half of it later reimbursed by the state--allotted to each candidate. There was a head-to-head debate, in the course of which it was Mme. Royal, not the reputedly com-bustible Sarkozy, who suffered a loss of temper. Best of all, from midnight on the final Friday until the start of voting, on Sunday, there was a ban on polls. "A period of reflection," a Sarkozy supporter said.

By seven o'clock on Sunday evening, the conditions were no longer reflective. Royal's followers, or "Royalistes," rustled outside her campaign headquarters, where murky rumors were already on the loose. A placard warned against "Sarko-Maso," a semi-sexual taunt suggesting that France, by voting for the right, would knowingly inflict pain on itself. Suddenly, amid the hubbub, an ivory blur: the leader in the flesh, her smile intact, sailing through the flashbulbs with that faint uplift of the head with which the nobly defeated used to mount the tumbrel. By the time she reached the home of the Socialist Party, on the Rue de Solferino, the scrum had stiffened into a crush. The countdown began, all gazes lifted to a giant screen: no hanging chads here, just a crisp announcement of the winner at eight o'clock.

Sarkozy, fifty-three per cent; Royal, forty-seven. Recriminations welled up faster than the tears. There was derisive anger at Sarkozy's use of the media--"He pulls the strings," one Royaliste said--and, behind the ...