When to this rhetoric are added fanciful claims about the EU’s unique vaccine success (based on its “unique solidarity” — patently lacking) and its efforts to advance “the sovereignty of peoples” (which it is busily undermining), one is tempted to conclude that everyone knows this is just flim-flam to gratify its audience of Euro MPs. A dash of cynicism rarely goes amiss, and the simplest explanation is that Macron is facing an election in April, and wants to buttress his image as the philosopher-king of both Europe and France.

Macron is now the only tirelessly enthusiastic Europhile among France’s leading politicians. When he was elected in 2017, he was the only candidate standing on a “European” platform. That will be true again this year. It may seem a risky strategy, as the French electorate is no more Europhile than the British was. But the French, whatever their misgivings about the EU, are more resigned to it. Marine Le Pen crashed in the last presidential campaign when she could not explain how to get out of the eurozone, which is the crucial issue.

Besides, what most people in France feel about the EU does not much matter. In reaction to the parliamentary systems of the Third and Fourth Republics, the presidential system of the Fifth, designed for Charles de Gaulle, provides France with a “republican monarch” to provide national leadership, especially in foreign policy. This means doing what the elite thinks is in the national interest. De Gaulle put it memorably: how can you govern a nation with 246 sorts of cheese? The answer is by not being guided by the cheese-makers.

France, even more than most democracies, has government by an elite, practically a caste. I once asked a rising young French diplomat how it was that they all seemed to agree. He unhesitatingly said it was learnt at “Sciences Po”. The distinguished Institut des Sciences Politiques was deliberately set up in the 1870s, after a disastrous cycle of revolutions and defeats, to “create a brain for the people”. Sciences Po graduates, and those from other elite training schools, most famously the École Polytechnique and the École Nationale d’Administration (which Macron attended, after graduating from Sciences Po), still shape the brain that runs France. Unlike elite educational establishments in Britain or the United States — Oxbridge or the Ivy League, for example — these are smaller, more exclusive, and above all dedicated primarily to State service. Like a civilian Sandhurst or West Point.

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So while electoral tactics come and go, Macron is really the spokesman for a much older and deeper consensus. His Europeanism is more eloquent, but his views are little different from those of his predecessors. Part of this is a simple conviction that France is unique, and the legitimate cultural and political leader of Europe. De Gaulle famously wrote that he had always believed France dedicated “to an eminent and exceptional destiny”. As Harold Macmillan realised, when de Gaulle, “says ‘Europe’, he means ‘France’.” Macron’s Strasbourg speech, in similarly European language, reflects France’s historic fears and ambitions: plus ça change.

These fears have their roots in the catastrophe of 1870, when Prussia invaded, bombarded Paris, destroyed French primacy in Europe, and emerged as the new German Empire. Since then, relations with Germany have dominated French foreign policy, traumatically confirmed by two world wars. “France has a German policy, she has no other,” wrote a leading French commentator soon after the end of the Second World War. Her European policy is her German policy.

After 1870, it took 50 years for France’s strategy for recovery to be worked out. At first, there were bitter partisan divisions — bitter enough to get a leading politician shot leaving parliament — about whether true patriotism meant responding to defeat by turning away from Europe to gain colonies or concentrating forces on “the blue line of the Vosges”, the mountains that ran along the new border with Germany.

In the end, the French decided to do both, creating a global empire to buttress its power in Europe. In the Twenties, realising that Germany’s defeat in the First World War had not destroyed its power, and that France could not rely on British or American support, Paris proposed European integration.

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This was to be the means of both reconciling and controlling Germany. After a promising start, it failed during the Thirties. But the idea never went away, and the second defeat of Germany, in 1945, produced the same logic, especially when again Britain and America seemed, in French eyes, to be unreliable allies. European integration, culminating in the creation of the euro, was to be the principal means of taming German power — sweetened by fulsome expressions of friendship.

Macron’s speech shows that France’s grand strategy — the strategy of its governing caste — has been based on the same logic for nearly a century. Partnership with Germany within a European framework is the bedrock. And if Germany is unresponsive, the language becomes more enticing and the pressure more sustained. This time, Macron has told the European parliament that France and Germany have agreed to give it more power — the right to initiate legislation, hitherto the monopoly of the Commission. Not much doubt who is steering the ship.

And what of other allies? Russia — whether ruled by the tsars, the Communists or today’s plutocracy — has been a difficult but always tempting geopolitical partner: France’s principal ally from 1890 to 1917, and an ally again in 1935. And now? Macron says Russia must be negotiated with over Ukraine, to find a political compromise. Even more strikingly, he announces a “dialogue” with the Russians over the “collective security” of a new “European order”, a “security order”. This may permit the Western Balkans to join the EU, but that, he says, will require EU governance to become more centralised.

He sees the “vocation of our Europe” — of France, in other words — to be a “true balancing power”, which seems to mean more distanced from the Atlantic alliance. Part of this vision is of a new “alliance” between the EU and Africa, emphasising the connections between the two coasts of the Mediterranean, the core of the old French empire.

This is Gaullism, pure and simple. Pulling away from the “Anglo-Saxons”, emphasising the special relationship with Germany, flirting with Russia, influencing Africa. Unlike Britain, France has unashamedly clung to its imperial and post-imperial role, maintaining a military, political and financial presence in its former African colonies, legally converting far-flung island possessions into parts of France (and hence parts of the EU), and promoting la Francophonie, its Commonwealth equivalent. As noted earlier, since the 1880s it has seen its global role as complementary to its European status. European integration continues this strategy: to the outside world, France presents itself as the leader of Europe, and to Europe it presents itself as the Continent’s only global power, with nuclear weapons, overseas territories, and a UN Security Council seat. Such high-flown ambition might eventually prove illusory. But one has to admire the determination. There is no alternative plan: the die has long been cast.

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Where does Britain stand in the French vision? Macron referred to “ties of friendship” with “the British people” — but pointedly not with their government. To follow “a common path” after Brexit requires Whitehall to apply “in good faith” agreements on Northern Ireland and fisheries — the “condition for staying friends”. Any Brexiteer will reply that it is France that has lacked good faith over the Northern Ireland Protocol and fishing. No matter: Macron thinks he wields the EU as a big stick, and perhaps he does.

Brexit poses both a danger and an opportunity, as has been clear since 2016. Britain cannot be allowed to leave the EU successfully, or France’s European project is threatened. But if Britain came to accept some sort of subordinate status, conforming with the EU’s (and hence France’s) political and economic “common path”, France’s position would be strengthened. The resignation of Lord Frost, who had explicitly rejected this, caused rejoicing at the Elysée, where Liz Truss seems to be seen as a lightweight.

A former European Commissioner with a keen eye for history recently told me that he thought Britain and France had been engaged, since the beginning of European integration in the Fifties, in their third Hundred Years’ War. The first, ending in 1453, was won by the French. The second, ending in 1815, by the British. In the third, we still have another three decades to go.

He had, however, made a minor adjustment to pension rules which meant that Madeleine, our next-door neighbour in Normandy, Clare’s surrogate grandmother, had been obliged to return to work. In Madeleine’s frequent absences a semi-wild cat that she and Clare had befriended had vanished, presumed dead. So, Madeleine concluded, Monsieur Raffarin was to blame for the death of their cat.

The constitution and conventions of the French Fifth Republic provide for a double-headed, or chauffeur-driven, government. The president is in power but not at the wheel; the prime minister runs the country day-to-day. The president controls foreign and defence policy and sets the course for the nation. In Charles de Gaulle’s conception of things, it was the prime minister’s job to deal with “events, dear boy,” and become unpopular. The president should remain aloof, monarchical and — in theory — adored by his people. Jean-Pierre Raffarin, in becoming the object of blame for the death of a semi-wild cat, was doing more or less what Le Général had intended. 

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That was 18 years ago. If the same incident occurred today, there is no doubt who would be to blame — not Prime Minister Edouard Philippe, but President Emmanuel Macron. Something has gone awry with De Gaulle’s grand plan, now 61 years old, for governing a country that he thought was ungovernable.

The age of Facebook and Twitter, the decay of the traditional media, and the decline of deference, has made the notion of wholesale power without detailed responsibility unsustainable. The French people now take the view that they elect a president to run the country — not just to represent and guide the nation. If things go wrong, even if they do not go very wrong, it is the president in the Elysée Palace that they blame; they tend to be forgiving, or indifferent, towards the man (there has only once been a woman) in the Palais Matignon, the home and office of the prime minister.

President François Mitterrand (in power 1981-1995) was probably the last French head of state to make De Gaulle’s concept work, though some argue that it never did work very well. Jacques Chirac (1995-2012), Raffarin’s boss, took a detached view of daily politics, but still became unpopular — until he died last year at which point France discovered that it had always loved him deeply. Nicolas Sarkozy (2007-12) tried, in effect, to be his own prime minister. Ditto François Hollande (2012-16). Both were one-term presidents.

Emmanuel Macron (2016- ), by declaring himself “Jupiter,” tried to revive something of the Gaullist presidential mystique — and immunity from 24-hour news. He has failed.

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Consider two recent opinion polls, researched during France’s coronavirus lockdown, which ended on Tuesday. (Disparities between polls are common in France.) Ifop-Fiducial for Paris Match found on 2 June that President Emmanuel Macron’s approval rating was 40% (no change). Prime Minister Edouard Philippe’s was 53% (up 7 points). Odoxa for France Inter found, on 26 May, that Macron’s rating was 35% (down 7 points), while Philippe’s was 46% (no change).

There have been opinion polls showing prime ministers to be more popular than presidents in the past — but an 11 to 13 point gap is exceptional. Macron has received the blame for what has gone wrong in France’s response to the Covid crisis, even though France has got many things right. Philippe, who has been in day-to-day control and was personally responsible for at least one bad decision, has prospered in popular opinion. He is seen as a likeable man and a safe pair of hands.

Philippe’s new-found popularity comes at an awkward time for Macron. The President knows that the economic after-shock of the Covid crisis will undermine his hopes of re-election in two years’ time. He is tempted to do what Fifth Republic heads of state have often done — to relaunch his presidency by changing his prime minister. But how can Macron dump Philippe when the Prime Minister is the most popular member of the government team? If he does so, might Philippe — a transfer from the centre-Right who never joined Macron’s start-up centrist party — run against the President himself in 2022 and win?

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The conundrum has been greeted with mischievous joy in recent days by opposition politicians from far Right to hard Left. They have taken to  Philippe’s parliamentary speeches and televised press conferences as a way of teasing and embarrassing Macron.

A leading ally of Macron told me: “No decisions have yet been made yet but there will definitely be a Government reshuffle in early July.”

“Macron wants the remaining two years or so of his mandate to take a new direction….something less confrontational, more ecological, probably a little to the Left, something which takes account of the shocks of the Covid crisis.”

Whether Philippe is dumped or carries on is 50:50 at the moment, the Macron ally says. The Prime Minister is a fiscally conservative man of the centre-Right. He may not feel comfortable with the probable new direction of Macron II.

“In any case, Philippe is exhausted,” he said.

“There is no animosity between the two men, despite what you read. Philippe could agree with Macron to quit while he’s ahead. He would then have a good chance of becoming President himself one day….But whatever happens he won’t run against Macron in two years’ time. He’s much too loyal and honourable a man to do that.”

The decision is further complicated by the shortage of compelling candidates to replace Edouard Philippe. Logically, if Macron wants to steer to the Left or to turn green, he needs a prime minister with a leftish lean or a greenish tinge. But who?

The only half-way plausible name to emerge so far is Jean-Yves Le Drian, the foreign minister and former defence minister. Le Drian is a former history teacher and former mayor of Lorient in Brittany. He is Catholic and socialist, from a working-class background — a combination now rare on the French Left. He is competent but dry, a manager rather than an ideologue. He has no known green tendencies.

Le Drian is 72 years old. His promotion would install a rather odd couple at the head of the French government – a 42-year-old president-monarch and a 72-year-old prime-minister-chief-vizier. 

Macron’s youth and political inexperience partly explain why he has never been able to imprint himself on the French collective mind as father of the nation. He has delivered on some of his promises and made several important economic reforms, but there is something in his character that annoys many French people. He has no traditional, grassroots power base and has failed to create one; and his reforms have angered the Left.

His main claims to deserve a second term — a sharp fall in unemployment; a boom in foreign and domestic investment — will be buried by the economic crisis which follows the health crisis (an anticipated 11% fall in France’s GDP this year). Hence the need for Macron, as he said in a televised speech to the nation on 13 April, to “re-invent” himself.

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Macron’s relationship with Philippe has been placed under huge strain by three crises in the last 20 months (more than any other Fifth Republic President has faced). During the original Gilets Jaunes rebellion, of November 2018, Macron was the principal target of provincial working- and middle-class abuse. He felt himself to be isolated and exposed — but nonetheless chose to leave his Jupiterian Mount Olympus to make a successful tour of local town hall meetings. Philippe was little seen.

During the pensions reform crisis of October last year, Philippe was thrust onto the front line. Macron, although the reform was largely his idea, opted to hide. He disliked some of the tactical choices made by Philippe but had to go along with them. Relations between the two began to fray.

During the Covid crisis, Macron has appeared in various guises, or disguises — sometimes standing back, sometimes thrusting himself into the limelight. He made four TV addresses to the nation in the space of a month, from mid-March to mid-April, in which he variously “declared war” and then admitted mistakes and announced that the world would never be the same again.

Meanwhile Philippe made a series of very competent appearances at press conferences and on the TV news, painstakingly explaining the science and the logistics of the Covid crisis. Overall, France has coped better than most similar countries but, unlike Germany, failed to test widely and rapidly. The government initially misled the nation on the reasons for this failure. Philippe and his ministers made more mis-statements than Macron, but Philippe has attracted less of the blame.

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Overall, allies of both men say their relationship has been healthier, and more equal, than between most Fifth Republic presidents and prime ministers. De Gaulle employed three prime ministers in 10 years; George Pompidou had two in five years; Valéry Giscard d’Estaing had two in seven years; Mitterrand seven in 14 years; Chirac 4 in 12 years; Hollande three in five years.

The only president to be “faithful” to a single prime minister was Sarkozy, who patronised and marginalised François Fillon. The two men came to detest one another and took mutual revenge during the centre-Right primaries in 2017 (allowing a young, centrist upstart to become president of the Republic).   

Both Mitterrand (twice) and Chirac (once) were obliged to appoint prime ministers from opposition parties after losing parliamentary elections. These so-called “cohabitations” had the Wizard of Oz effect of revealing that the Fifth Republic constitution actually grants French presidents very few direct powers. Without a majority in the national assembly, they are even more powerless than a US president without a majority in House and Senate.

These three periods when Prime Ministers ruled alone contributed to the de-mystification of the Olympian presidency imagined by De Gaulle. So did Chirac’s selfish decision in 2002 to reduce the presidential term from seven years to five so he could run again, despite his age and failing health. Having presidential and parliamentary terms of the same length linked the presidency to the parliamentary system; it became less of the independent power base that De Gaulle had intended.

In any case, the mediascape and the political zeitgeist has changed utterly since January 1959, when De Gaulle gave up the prime minister’s job to become the first president of the Fifth Republic. It is no longer feasible for a president to be a back-seat driver on all but foreign and defence policy. The role of the prime minister has become unsustainable — a source of instability, of staff intrigue and jealousy, rather than a throwaway shield or detachable front-bumper.

And yet a return to a straightforward parliamentary democracy, with a French chancellor or dominant prime minister, is inconceivable. It would be against French instincts. It would also be against the spirit of the times.

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The French presidential system, for good or ill, suits and reinforces the worldwide twenty-first century decline of political parties. It chimes with the global trend towards charismatic leaders who know how to play on the cynicism and credulity of public opinion.

Macron surfed that mood in his own way in 2017 but he was neither cynical, nor charismatic, nor anti-establishment enough to ride the wave for long. His great fear for the Corona-skewed 2022 election is not a treacherous run by Edouard Philippe, nor even a triumph by Marine Le Pen. He fears the emergence of a bewitching figure from outside the political system. Paradoxically, the double-headed French system of government — giving a would-be charismatic strongman a prime minister to do the dog-work — could make such a candidature more plausible.

That, after all, is more or less how Vladimir Putin translated De Gaulle’s blueprint for government into Russian.