ONE SMOKE-BOMB, BUT NO SNOGGING

Anne McElvoy does the rounds

of the party HQs on election night in France's capital

Paris THE platter of squishy regional cheeses was just being unveiled by a team of chefs in starched white hats, and a decent claret decanted by the waiters, when the smoke- bomb — the disagreeable tribute of some National Front supporters — landed at the entrance of the Socialist party's celebra- tion on the Left Bank.

Election parties — the odd ill-wisher's missile notwithstanding — are extremely well-planned affairs in Paris, bearing more resemblance to a well-heeled family wed- ding than a bacchanal. Small ladies in small pastel suits proffered canapes. The kissing was perfectly controlled to avoid collisions with lipstick and the ubiquitous cigarettes. Professors and lawyers stood round television screens looking pleased with themselves.

The disruption turned out to be a bless- ing in disguise, since it allowed the crowds of young unaccredited Socialists gathered like latter-day sansculottes outside the gates of the borrowed palace in the Boule- vard Saint-Germain to break through the security cordons and bring the staid evening to life. Coursing into the foun- tained gardens, the revellers climbed into the trees intoning their anti-Le Pen chant, 'We are all the children of immigrants,' and, 'Down with Le Pen.'

This seemed a touch ungrateful, given that it was the National Front which had split the right-wing vote and let the Social- ists in to start with. But this was the night of uplifting nonsense and the suspension of disbelief. The people had chosen cohabitation. The Socialists had a whole night in which to pretend that they had chosen revolution.

Outside, the streets of the Left Bank echoed to the strains of the 'Interna- tionale' and `La Jeune Garde'. Red flags were attached to lampposts and bicycles and tied round the necks of two pekinese to the appreciative roars of the refuse men. The mood was thoroughly juvenile. Car horns hooted while taxi-drivers swore pro- fusely and heaped obloquy on the revellers. 'First they take over Saint-Germain and before you know it we'll have Soviet condi- tions in France,' said one.

For the well-heeled young professionals whose homes are the pricy, tiny apartments of the Left Bank this was a glimpse of 1968 — although of course far politer in tone, and over in time for them to be back at their desks with a hangover by Monday morning. 'No more austerity,' sang a group of drunken Socialist supporters in the Café Flore, toasting the victory with triple armagnacs to emphasise the point. 'Social- ism is alive,' chorused the students on the Pont Michel. `Salut Tony Blair!'

Someone once characterised modern France as 'tin roi elu, deux milles fonction- naires et le reste — c'est du cinema'. Elec- tion night offered cinema of Oscar- winning quality. It seemed incredible that a man as mild-mannered and with a message as mixed, not to say mixed-up, as Lionel Jospin could be the cause of such fervour. This is the man who took to the hustings with the rallying cry, 'We will try to make as few mistakes as possible.'

Even at the Socialists' headquarters peo- ple seemed to be having difficulty agreeing about what was so marvellous about M. Jospin's victory. 'He'll save us from the chains of the convergence criteria and the German diktat,' said one man. 'But he's committed to keep France at the centre of the European project,' said another. They nodded vigorously at this contradiction, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

M. Jospin appeared on television from his Toulouse constituency — white fluffy hair, strong white teeth, white face and big ears. He looked like a large and rather seri- ous rabbit. 'C'est bien,' muttered my neigh- bour, `mais ce n'est pas Tony Blair.' It certainly wasn't. M. Jospin is one of those men who looks uncomfortable when an emotional state is expected of him, and gave a victory speech which managed to be dull and vague at the same time about the need for 'new conditions in France' and 'pluralism of the Left'. Asked what he planned to do to celebrate, he said that he intended to have 'a quiet dinner with a few friends', which stymied the interviewer. 'Won't you be greeting your supporters?' she asked. 'I am greeting them now,' said M. Jospin, exhibiting the disjointed social skills so reminiscent of John Redwood.

11 est protestant,' said one woman by way of mitigation. `Tres, tits protestant. 'And he's honest,' said another. This is a rather back-handed compliment in French politics, implying that the bearer of the virtue is too boring to be anything but upright. They turned instead to gossiping about Mme Jospin, a dark-haired beauty with a philosophy degree, sporting impres- sive gold jewellery. Where was the sheer raucous joy of the Festival Hall, scene of Labour's victory war dance on the night of 1 May? Where was the music, the snogging, weeping and boasting? Instead, this very middle-aged Socialist party ate for victory. The waiters told me that they can usually guess the results by the scale of the provisions. Dur- ing the first round, the Right produced champagne and scores of canapes while the Socialists stuck to wine and a small venue. This time the Right had restricted themselves to two small tents outside a bleak office building — admittedly in the splendid Avenue George V — while the Left had moved into its borrowed splen- dour and doubled the order for nibbles.

At the headquarters of President Chirac's trounced RPR, the mood was awful and the cheeses remained uneaten. Small women in even better suits than at the Socialists' stood around reading off the numbers of seats conceded with stoical expressions on their faces. The occasional shoulder-shrug was the sole sign of disap- pointment. 'Perhaps you needed a Tony Blair,' said one mischievous French jour- nalist to a stony woman official. Mr Blair is becoming a European-wide synonym for electoral success.

At the Bastille the founders of Marianne, a new left-wing women's maga- zine, threw a street party attended by the fashionable sorts: Marxists and a lot of drunks who had left their doorways to pur- loin wine by the bottle and lustily join in the singing of revolutionary songs. The Communists, finding themselves in the pleasant position of holding the Socialists to ransom with a mere 38 seats, were hav- ing the most fun of all. 'Did you know', said a young man who claimed to be a lec- turer, 'that three quarters of all world capi- talism is in the hands of 60 gangsters? Doesn't that shock you?'

I said it might if he could tell me where he got the figures.

'Well, there's a bookshop I could show You tomorrow if you're interested — they've got all the details in there and a nice coffee shop.' He did not like Mr Blair on the grounds that Mr Blair was not an Intellectual, reminded him of a tax adviser and spoke stilted French. 'But your people love him more than ours love Jospin,' he conceded.

Robert Hue, the Lenin epigone who leads the party, had spoken to his ranks earlier, telling them not to waver in their search for a 35-hour week, an increased minimum wage and tax rises for the rich. They shouted back that they would not waver. 'We Communists have never wavered,' reiterated M. Hue. This went on for some time.

Elsewhere, in their bunker in the distant suburbs, the National Front had not both- ered to stage a party. 'France is in a terri- ble state,' snapped a spokesman. 'If you want to celebrate, go back to England.' He hesitated in search of a suitable insult. 'Go back to your Tony Blair.'