The Weakest Hand at the Table
On the evening of June 18, 1940, a temporary brigadier general whom virtually no one in France had heard of sat down before a microphone in a BBC studio at Broadcasting House in London and began to speak. He had no army. He had no government. He had no legal authority of any kind. The day before, he had fled a country collapsing into surrender, carrying nothing but his uniform, his height, and a conviction so outsized it bordered on clinical delusion — that he, Charles André Joseph Marie de Gaulle, personally embodied the republic. The man who would sign the broadcast had been, until ten days earlier, a colonel. He had been promoted to brigadier general on June 1, a rank he would insist on retaining for the rest of his life, and then appointed undersecretary of state for defense and war on June 6 — the most junior sub-cabinet minister in a government that was already dying. On June 16, when Marshal Philippe Pétain replaced Paul Reynaud as Prime Minister and moved to request an armistice with Hitler, de Gaulle boarded a plane for England. By August 2, a French military court had tried him in absentia and sentenced him to death.
No recording of the June 18 appeal survives. The BBC accidentally wiped the tapes. What remains is a legend — a 400-word speech that almost nobody heard and that almost everybody, within a few years, would claim to have heard. "Whatever happens," de Gaulle said, "the flame of French resistance must not be extinguished and will not be extinguished." The French word résistance, given a capital letter by the force of his delivery, entered the language as something larger than a military term. It became a proper noun, a moral category. And the man who spoke it — gangly, aloof, with the pursed mouth and melancholy eyes of a figure from a Corneille tragedy — became, through nothing but theatrical élan and the refusal to accept what every rational calculation insisted was true, the symbol of a France that had not surrendered.
No one has ever played a weaker hand more compellingly. His life was, as Adam Gopnik has written, one long brilliant bluff. The things that made him exasperating — the vanity, the closed-mindedness, the unearned sense of superiority, the egocentric blindness that drove Churchill to threaten to have him shot and Roosevelt to dismiss him as a petty dictator — were precisely why the bluffs worked. He convinced men sitting at the card table with all the aces in their hands that he might have somehow manufactured an extra ace by pure force of will.
By the Numbers
The Gaullist Republic
3Rendezvous with history: 1940, 1958, 1968
79%Approval for the Fifth Republic constitution (September 1958 referendum)
30+Assassination attempts survived during presidency
750,000Pieds-noirs refugees absorbed after Algerian independence
11 yearsTenure as President of the Fifth Republic (1959–1969)
300,000+Free French troops by D-Day, June 1944
53%Voters who rejected his final referendum, ending his presidency (April 1969)
A Military Melancholy
The mythology requires a provincial childhood, a boy raised among the country gentry of northern France, but the fact is less picturesque. De Gaulle grew up in Paris's Seventh Arrondissement — a neighborhood he described, with a precision bordering on poetry, as marked by "a military melancholy," a sadness of grand and empty green spaces. Born on November 22, 1890, in Lille, he was the second of five children in a family of Parisian lawyers originally from the Champagne region. His father, Henri de Gaulle, taught philosophy and literature at a Jesuit school — a man aligned with the Catholic, reactionary side of French politics but emphatically not with its Jew-hating or monarchist fanaticism. The family had produced historians and writers. The young Charles was afforded what we might now call an intellectually immersive education, steeped in Latin, Corneille, Racine, Chateaubriand. He could recite vast passages of French classical drama from memory well into his seventies. "The most wonderful job in the world would be as a librarian," he once said. He was being puckish, but not entirely so.
What the literary immersion gave him was not just erudition but a frame — the tragic frame of French classical drama, in which most hopes are doomed, all choices come at a cost, and enduring loss with dignity is the highest of human callings. This stoical view was married to a conscious philosophy of action drawn from the philosopher Henri Bergson, whom de Gaulle chose to read as a kind of proto-existentialist. Intellect needed to be braced by impulse. What you felt you should do, however irrational it might seem to others, was most often what needed to be done. "Great men have both intellect and impulse," de Gaulle wrote decades later. "The brain serves as a brake upon pure emotional impulse. The brain surmounts impulse; but there must also be impulse and the capability for action in order not to be paralysed by the brake of the brain. I remember this from Bergson who has guided me through my entire life."
He chose the military. Admitted to the Military Academy of Saint-Cyr in 1908, he graduated near the top of his class and in 1912 returned as a second lieutenant to the 33rd Infantry Regiment in Arras, where his commanding officer was Colonel Philippe Pétain. The two men — both outspoken, both self-confident, both believers in the dominance of firepower over the spirit of the bayonet charge — developed a mutual admiration that would curdle, three decades later, into the central antagonism of modern French history.
The Education of Firepower
At Dinant on August 15, 1914, Lieutenant de Gaulle led his section in a charge straight into machine guns. He fell almost immediately, a bullet in the leg. Those first hours of the Great War confirmed what his pre-war reading of Pétain had suggested: firepower kills men who charge it, no matter how magnificent their élan. He returned to the regiment in October, volunteered for reconnaissance missions into no-man's-land, earned the Croix de Guerre in January 1915, and was promoted to captain in February. On March 10, at Mesnil-lès-Hurlus, during the First Battle of Champagne, he was shot in the hand. He came back again.
On February 21, 1916, the German Fifth Army attacked at Verdun. The 33rd Infantry was sent to reinforce the fortified lines around the city. On March 2, during the fighting at Douaumont, Captain de Gaulle was bayoneted in the thigh and left for dead on the field. He was not dead. He was a prisoner. For two years and eight months, he was held in German camps — at Osnabrück, Friedberg, Ingolstadt, Rosenberg — and he attempted to escape five times. Five times he was caught. At the high-security fortress of Ingolstadt, he kept the boredom of his fellow prisoners at bay by delivering what were described as brilliant lectures on the course of the military conflict. The captivity left him with bitter memories. He would later write that "all the virtue in the world is powerless against firepower" — a line that carried both a military doctrine and an existential wound.
Between the wars, the wound was transmuted into prophecy. He wrote books: La Discorde chez l'ennemi (1924), on the failures of German command; Le Fil de l'épée (1932), on the nature of leadership; Vers l'armée de métier (1934), on the case for a small, professional, mechanized army. The last of these was, in retrospect, one of the most consequential ignored books of the twentieth century. While the French military establishment clung to the Maginot Line and the static theories of World War I, de Gaulle argued for armored columns, mobile warfare, the concentration of tanks as an independent striking force. His ideas were dismissed by his superiors. They were, however, read with interest across the Rhine.
Our initial defeat comes from the application by the enemy of ideas that are mine.
That memorandum, written in the spring of 1940 as German Panzers overran France using precisely the tactics de Gaulle had described, must have landed on his desperate superiors' desks with the force of a slap. It was true, and its truth made it unbearable. The prophet had been right, and the result of being right was that his country was destroyed.
The Bluff Begins
The speed of France's collapse remains almost incomprehensible. In six weeks, from May 10 to June 25, 1940, the German Army dismantled what had been considered the greatest military power in Europe. The failure was political as much as it was military. Paul Reynaud, the Prime Minister, had room to fall back and reorganize — the French had done exactly that in 1914. But Reynaud made the catastrophic decision to bring into his cabinet the defeatist generals Pétain and Weygand, and he was under the sway of his equally defeatist lover, Madame de Portes. Perhaps more important, the price of the earlier comeback had been millions of dead Frenchmen, and there was simply no will to try that experiment again.
De Gaulle, commanding the 4th Armoured
Division, had led one of the only successful French counterattacks, stopping the Germans at Abbeville between May 27 and 30. On June 1, he was promoted to temporary brigadier general. On June 6, Reynaud named him undersecretary of state for defense and war. On June 16, he learned that Reynaud had been replaced by Pétain, who would request an armistice. On June 17, de Gaulle flew to London.
He arrived with nothing. A handful of haphazardly recruited supporters. No political status. No recognition.
Winston Churchill — who had met him briefly, who had already called him "l'homme du destin" — chose to back him, less from certainty than from the intuitive conviction that someone had to keep the idea of French resistance alive. Churchill recognized in de Gaulle what Julian Jackson, in his definitive 2018 biography, calls "the quixotic side" of his character — and he identified with it. On June 28, the British government recognized de Gaulle as the leader of
Free France.
The Vichy regime — Pétain's collaborationist government, installed in the spa town that would give it its name — responded with characteristic precision: de Gaulle was stripped of his rank, tried in absentia, and sentenced to death. Then, in a stroke of unintentional genius, Vichy made him the center of a hate campaign, plastering France with posters showing his tall figure behind a microphone surrounded by swarthy Jews. The effect was to make de Gaulle the one anti-German leader whom most French people had actually heard of. The Vichy regime, in the blindness of its hatred, helped create — and promote — the de Gaulle brand.
The Corneille Hero in Mayfair
In exile, paradoxically, lay his strength. There was something of Saint Joan about it — the solitary figure, sustained by nothing but conviction, who comes to embody a national cause. His solitariness appealed to the French collective myth of the single defiant individual. His passion in London was, exactly, a scene out of Corneille, like that of Rodrigue in Le Cid, the hero who rises to gloire in a moment of individual trial. Shakespeare's heroes, like Henry V, rise by inspiring armies; Corneille's by dueling alone with their principles.
The practical reality was considerably less romantic. De Gaulle was insufferable. He refused to placate Roosevelt, acting as if he commanded a major army instead of a few borrowed rooms in Mayfair. He irritated Churchill with hyperbolic disquisitions on French honor when what Churchill wanted was cooperation with military plans. Jackson recounts an episode in which Churchill summoned de Gaulle, and one interpreter after another was thrown out for failing to convey what each man intended to say to the other — Churchill was trying to bully, and the interpreters, understandably uneasy, kept softening his words into diplomacy — until at last the two men were left alone, conversing in Churchill's execrable French.
"You will see, if you say 'no,' they will crawl to you and offer you the moon," de Gaulle once explained to a subordinate. His behavior was maddeningly adolescent, but he chose it for the same reason an adolescent chooses his — as the one way, in a position of actual dependency, to declare one's autonomy. Slamming the door of your bedroom is sometimes the only power you have when you are living in someone else's house.
Georges Boris — a socialist Jewish journalist in exile, writing to the imprisoned Jewish socialist Léon Blum — captured something essential about what de Gaulle meant to those who gathered around him in London:
De Gaulle gave me back honour, the possibility of being able to look people in the face again. To a large degree, his unwillingness to bend, his intransigence are willed. He likes to say that being as weak as he is, intransigence is his only weapon.
The weakness was real. For months, the only colonial territory to pledge support to de Gaulle's Free France was New Hebrides, in the South Pacific — not hugely useful for a European war. A Free French military expedition to capture the naval base of Dakar in French West Africa failed embarrassingly in September 1940. Gradually, though, territories rallied: Chad, Cameroun, French Equatorial Africa, the smaller French colonies in India and the Pacific. By 1941, Free French forces were participating in British-controlled operations against the Italians in Libya and Egypt, and joined the British in defeating Vichy forces in Syria and Lebanon.
The transformation came through a man named Jean Moulin. A high-ranking left-wing prefect, Moulin came to London to build a secret army inside occupied France, then was parachuted back in to lead it. He was, in Julian Jackson's telling, everything de Gaulle was not: personally warm, politically left, possessed of an instinctive talent for drawing together the fractious, acronym-studded world of French resistance — on a single page of Jackson's biography one encounters the C.F.L.N., the C.N.R., the F.F.I., the B.C.R.A., the AMGOT, and the C.D.L., all Free French factions of the forties. Moulin brought credibility with all sides. De Gaulle took on some of it.
What Moulin's example taught de Gaulle — or confirmed in a man already moving toward the realization — was that only revolutionary republican values could speak to a working class in need of a democratic alternative to Communism. Especially after Vichy made anti-republicanism synonymous with surrender, de Gaulle came to see that France had to be addressed by the republic's magic words — liberty, equality, and fraternity — not the near-Vichyite ones of fatherland and family he had first favored. He was the farthest thing in the world from an instinctive democrat. He didn't have to be. It was enough that he understood that democracy had become one of the instincts of France.
Moulin was arrested by the Gestapo in June 1943, betrayed under circumstances that remain murky to this day — was his Judas a Communist fellow-resister obeying Moscow's orders to eliminate anti-Communists? We still don't know — and tortured to death by Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon. When de Gaulle heard the news, he said, with the stoicism of a Corneille hero: "Continuons." We'll go on.
The Walk
And he did. On August 26, 1944, after the Allies liberated Paris — after the Free French 2nd Armoured Division under General Jacques-Philippe Leclerc had driven into the capital to consummate the liberation, after the French Forces of the Interior had mounted an insurrection, after the barricades and the street fighting and the German surrender — de Gaulle claimed the victory as his own. He organized a personal parade down the Champs-Élysées in which he walked alone, his fellow-resisters asked to hang back a few feet, amid a hysterical throng that may be the largest ever assembled in Paris.
He even managed to get France admitted as witness to the German surrender the following May — "a remarkable achievement, inconceivable without de Gaulle's tenacity, obstinacy and political skill," as Jackson writes. "The French are here, too?" one of the German generals reportedly said. If this triumph allowed the French to evade what had actually happened during the war — the abject armistice, the delivery of deportees to their persecutors, the entire black hole of Vichy from which so little light escaped for so long — it did put France in a position to go on.
Dwight Eisenhower, despite Roosevelt's distaste for de Gaulle, had been the one to fully embrace him as indispensable to the Normandy invasion. The American general understood what subsequent American generals planning invasions of poorly understood countries would so easily forget — that it is essential to have on your side not the local forces you wish were popular but the local forces who actually are popular. "From the purely military viewpoint we must deal with him alone," Eisenhower wrote home to Roosevelt. And Eisenhower noticed something else. In Michel Tauriac's oral history Vivre avec de Gaulle, one of de Gaulle's subordinates makes a revealing observation: when de Gaulle appeared to be listening, eyes wide open and attentive, he was really ignoring you. Only when he assumed his more familiar pose of sleepy-eyed indifference was he actually engaged.
The Interregnum
De Gaulle's first encounter with governing was brief and unhappy. On September 9, 1944, he and his shadow government returned from Algiers to Paris. He headed two successive provisional governments. He was unanimously elected provisional president. Then, on January 20, 1946, he abruptly resigned — apparently because of his irritation with the political parties forming the coalition government, but more fundamentally because the new constitution being drafted for the Fourth Republic ignored his desires for a strong presidency. A general's temperament was not made for intricate parliamentary maneuvering.
He formed a political movement, the Rally of the French People (RPF), in 1947. It grew quickly, won 120 seats in the 1951 National Assembly elections, and then de Gaulle lost interest in it. By 1953, he had severed his connection with the RPF. In 1955, it was disbanded. He retired to his country house in Colombey-les-deux-Églises — a tiny village in the Champagne region, the name of which means "Colombey of the two churches" — and turned to his memoirs:
L'Appel, 1940–1942 (1954),
L'Unité, 1942–1944 (1956),
Le Salut, 1944–1946 (1959). The writing was extraordinary — Curtis Cate, in the
Atlantic, placed the war memoirs alongside
Julius Caesar's
De bello Gallico and Chateaubriand's
Mémoires d'outre-tombe. De Gaulle was creating his own legend, and doing it with prose of a quality that justified the effort.
The Fourth Republic he had left behind was, as Jackson acknowledges, far more successful than is often allowed. But it came crashing down amid the horror of the impossible Algerian war — like Lyndon Johnson's administration, domestically competent and destroyed by a colonial conflict.
Je Vous Ai Compris
On June 4, 1958, wearing army uniform, Charles de Gaulle stood before a crowd in Algiers and declared: "Je vous ai compris" — I have understood you. The vous was deliberately ambiguous. The settlers heard a promise that Algeria would remain French. The Algerian nationalists heard an acknowledgment of their grievances. The military men who had organized the quasi-coup that brought de Gaulle back to power heard confirmation that their man was in charge. Everyone heard what they needed to hear. It was the single most consequential act of political ventriloquism in twentieth-century French history.
The background: in 1954, Algeria's National Liberation Front — the F.L.N. — had begun a guerrilla war for independence. By 1958, the war had lasted four years, consumed the Fourth Republic's energies, and radicalized a group of right-wing French military officers who, alarmed by the government's failure to defeat the rebellion and worried that the million-strong community of French nationals in Algeria — the pieds noirs — would be abandoned, staged what amounted to a coup in Algiers on May 13, 1958. They formed a Committee of Public Safety and demanded that de Gaulle be given power.
De Gaulle — who, as Jackson writes, "with rather magnificent Machiavellianism both did and did not encourage the junta's actions, cultivating its actors at the time and condemning them not long after" — was asked by the French President to lead a government of national union for six months and then to offer a new constitution. He accepted. Michel Debré, his faithful disciple and a brilliant jurist, was put in charge of drafting the constitution. The result, approved by referendum in September 1958 with 79 percent of the vote, was the Fifth Republic — a system that dramatically increased executive power at the expense of the National Assembly, created a presidency with real authority, and remains the constitutional framework of France today. On December 21, 1958, de Gaulle was elected president. On January 8, 1959, the Fifth Republic came into operation.
The Algerian crisis that brought him to power took another four years to resolve, and the resolution was devastating. The O.A.S. — the Organisation de l'Armée Secrète, a colonial terrorist organization — launched repeated assassination attempts against de Gaulle. General Raoul Salan led an attempted coup in Algiers in 1961. De Gaulle pushed ahead regardless. After years of futile negotiations, he arrived at an agreement granting Algerian independence, approved by referendum in April 1962 with more than 90 percent of French voters in favor. An exodus followed: 750,000 European settlers flooded into France. The pieds noirs were left without a homeland. The Harkis — Algerian Muslims who had fought with the French Army — were abandoned to murderous reprisals.
De Gaulle got, as Jackson says, exactly what any other French politician would have gotten: a surrender with the barest fig leaf. His triumph was to make the French "believe that he had controlled the process; and to create a compelling narrative that explained France's disengagement from Algeria and turned it into a victory rather than a defeat." One thinks of Vietnam, where what was achieved in 1975 was also what would have happened in 1968, with fewer deaths along the way.
The Technocrat in King's Robes
Beneath the sonorous grandiosity and medievalist rhetoric, de Gaulle's government was entirely technocratic and modernizing. This was the secret of the Fifth Republic — the paradox that makes it strange and interesting. The man who spoke of gloire and pageantry and a certain idea of France staffed his government with the graduates of the École Nationale d'Administration and the grandes écoles, the hyper-competent hautes fonctionnaires who actually ran the state. Michel Debré, his first Prime Minister, pursued with especial vigor many policies that were, in an age-old cycle, actually the policies of the much-maligned Fourth Republic.
The effects were both salubrious and infuriating. France became an extraordinarily well-run state — anyone who has encountered the upper reaches of the Fifth Republic's administrative class has been impressed by their education, worldliness, and efficiency. France also became an extraordinarily bureaucratic state — anyone who has dealt with the lower reaches knows the parallel paper universe in which no event has occurred on earth until it has a folder in a file.
De Gaulle's foreign policy was assertive, nationalist, and designed to demonstrate that France was not an American vassal. On March 7, 1966, he wrote to President Lyndon Johnson to announce France's withdrawal from NATO's integrated military command — while remaining a party to the Atlantic alliance itself. "France considers that the changes which have taken place since 1949," he wrote, with the formality of a man delivering a verdict, "do not justify, so far as she is concerned, the arrangements of a military nature made after the conclusion of the Alliance." He ejected NATO forces from French soil. He developed nuclear weapons — the force de frappe. He blocked Britain's entry into the European Common Market. Twice. He lectured the Americans on Vietnam. He traveled to Canada in 1967 and shouted "Vive le Québec libre!" from the balcony of Montreal's city hall — an improvisation inspired by his absurd fantasy that Quebec, already becoming a multiethnic modern state, was still occupied by the English.
The system of military integration applied to the Atlantic Alliance, which in fact assigns to the United States the possible conduct of war in Europe, the employment of the forces that would take part in it, and the entire disposition of the atomic arms which would be the basic weapons, deprives France, her people, her Government, and her Command, of the responsibility for her own defense.
He was maddening. He was also, on his own terms, right. Under de Gaulle's presidency, the French economy grew, the currency stabilized, and the country experienced a governmental stability greater than any living French citizen had known. The monuments of Paris were sandblasted under his and Malraux's orders, and the face of the city changed from grimy wartime black back to its original blue-gray and beige and white. It was as keenly symbolic of Gaullist triumph as any law or edict.
When Jean-Paul Sartre, during the Algerian war, supported the F.L.N. so extremist an extent that he was on the verge of being arrested, de Gaulle is said to have intervened: "One does not arrest Voltaire."
The Counter-[Demonstration](/mental-models/demonstration)
The flaw in the Fifth Republic as a political invention was structural and psychological. By concentrating so much power in one regal figure, de Gaulle made it possible to rule France again but also ensured that opposition would have to be impassioned and clamorous to register at all. Prime ministers, when they become unpopular, are eased out by their supporters. Kings, when they become unpopular, must be thrown out by a mob. Theatrical mini-revolutions became the norm in French politics.
The most famous of these erupted in May 1968. Student disorders at the Sorbonne on May 3 — a rally of student radicals that turned violent and was broken up by police — became a confrontation, then an occupation, then a nationwide conflagration. Barricades went up in the Latin Quarter. The unrest spread to factories. A wave of wildcat strikes rolled across France, involving millions of workers and virtually paralyzing the nation. An anti-materialist revolt with a largely incoherent practical politics — a militant French version of the Summer of Love, Sgt. Pepper with Trotskyite liner notes — it expressed so deep an impatience with Gaullism that it transformed France within a week.
De Gaulle seemed incapable of grasping the crisis. On May 29, he left Paris by helicopter. Rumors spread that he was about to resign. He was not about to resign. He flew to Baden-Baden to secure assurances of armed support, if needed, from the commanders of French troops in Germany, and then returned the next day. In a dramatic four-minute radio address — the medium he had mastered in 1940, and that never failed him — he presented himself as the only barrier to anarchy or Communist rule: "The Republic will not abdicate. The people will come to its senses."
Loyal Gaullists and nervous citizens rallied. On the Champs-Élysées, nearly a million people massed in a counter-demonstration — a reminder that the center of popular gravity in France remained on the right, even as its mind and imagination remained on the left. In elections held in June, the Gaullist Union of Democrats for the Republic won a landslide: three-fourths of the seats in the National Assembly.
For all that, May 1968 seemed to exhaust him spiritually. He replaced Prime Minister Georges Pompidou — a man who had shown toughness and nerve during the crisis while the president had temporarily lost his bearings — with the less threatening Maurice Couve de Murville. Then, less than a year later, de Gaulle staked his presidency on an insignificant referendum on regional reform. It was a form of ritual political suicide.
On April 27, 1969, the amendments were defeated by a 53-to-47 percent margin. That night, de Gaulle silently abandoned his office and returned to the obscurity of his country estate.
The Perpetual Illusion
"In reality we are on the stage of a theatre where I have been keeping up the illusion since 1940," de Gaulle once told a confidant. "I am trying to give France the appearance of a solid, firm, confident and expanding country, while it is a worn-out nation. The whole thing is a perpetual illusion."
A reasonable case can be made that it was all theater and hot air. The Allies would have retaken France with or without him, and some French politician would have walked down the Champs-Élysées in August 1944. France was going to surrender Algeria sooner or later; all de Gaulle did was extend the fight and put a noble face on the capitulation. By placing myth over history, he injected a toxic hallucinogen into French memory. It took decades for France to begin to address the reality of Vichy. The drowning of perhaps five hundred Algerians in Paris by the police on October 17, 1961 — under the authority of Maurice Papon, a former collaborator with the Nazis who served as de Gaulle's prefect of police — was suppressed at the time and is barely commemorated now.
His ingratitude to the British, who had saved his life and given him a platform to save his country — an ingratitude that became almost obsessively bitter in his memoirs — is unforgivable, except as a reminder of the truth that we always resent most those to whom we owe most.
Yet to stop there is to miss the central lesson that de Gaulle intuited: myths matter. Without a sense of shared symbols, it is impossible for any modern state to go on. France is a frustrating state, but it has never been a failed one. It works. National dignity is hugely important to any program of national renewal. Had American policy toward Russia after 1989 been shaped with an eye not just to that country's political system but to its pride — to making sure that the Russians had a myth of their own self-liberation, instead of being so obviously plundered and defeated — the ensuing disaster might, conceivably, have been less disastrous.
The distinction sometimes made between patriotism and nationalism is at the essence of his existence. The patriot loves his place and its cheeses and its people and its idiosyncrasies. The nationalist has no particular affection for the actual place he advocates for — he is often an outsider to it — but channels his obsessive grievances into acts of ethnic vengeance. De Gaulle is a nearly perfect example of the right-wing patriot in power, the constitutional conservative who accepts the modern order. From a background that in most places and circumstances would have led, in crisis, toward some form of Bonapartism, he remained a faithful believer in the norms of democracy. He believed in a certain idea of France, but it was a republican idea of France.
He died on November 9, 1970, at Colombey-les-deux-Églises, a few days before his eightieth birthday, of a massive stroke. He was reading at his desk. The village had two churches, and neither was large enough to hold his funeral. His passing inspired a nearly worldwide chorus of praise, even from those who had been his most persistent critics. His name was placed on the great airport outside Paris, on the plaza once called the Étoile where traffic streams perpetually around the Arc de Triomphe. The traffic goes around all day but never stops for long.
