Politicians and politologues in Paris like to feel that fundamental decisions about democracy in France are their exclusive domain, but thanks to circumstances unforeseen by the writers of the 1958 constitution, the future course of French democracy lies, briefly and uniquely, in the hands of the mayors of France profonde—by and large retired schoolmasters and farmers sharing only an innate cynicism towards Parisian politologues.
Anyone hoping to become president of France needs to get 500 endorsements from elected representatives across 30 départements (roughly a third of the total), with not more than 50 signatures from one département. No problem for the three major candidates, who rely on their party's MPs, senators and city mayors. Much more difficult for the 30 or so hopefuls from smaller parties, who have to venture out into France profonde begging rural mayors for signatures: in 2002, Jean-Marie Le Pen got 90 per cent of his endorsements from communes of fewer than 500 people. "For four and a half years we hear not a squeak from any of them," a local mayor told me, "then suddenly the fawning letters arrive, promising us the moon." Phone calls and personal visitations follow, with increasing desperation and moral arm-twisting as the deadline nears.
This surge of flattery might inflate the village headman's sense of his own importance, but many who sign come to regret it. The ballot is not secret. The list of signatures is posted at the Conseil constitutionnel in Paris—and now on the internet. Most rural mayors are sans etiquette, elected on the understanding that they rule by common sense, not party dogma, so while any endorsement risks criticism, endorsing an extreme candidate often brings vilification in the local press, public insults and even loss of mandate. The 500 mayors who get most stick are those who sign for Le Pen. Alain Jamet, vice-president of the Front National (FN), told me that rural mayors are increasingly afraid that if they endorse Le Pen they will have their grants cut and projects blocked by the moderate regional and national politicians who control their purse strings. Of the 500 mayors who endorsed Le Pen in 1995, only 20 signed again in 2002.
But not signing, many feel, is worse. A local mayor echoes the beliefs of many: "We have a democratic duty to allow anyone to stand. How else can the people decide? A two-horse race is not democracy." But other mayors argue that their democratic duty is to refuse to sign, to limit the number of candidates and so prevent a repeat of the fiasco in 2002 when 16 candidates split the voters, allowing the FN into the second round. Before that election, Le Pen had enormous difficulty getting his quota of signatures; the last few were squeezed out in the final hours before the deadline. Yet in the event, he beat everyone except Chirac. But he feels that success, rather than legitimising him, has only increased the pressure the main parties bring to bear on rural mayors this time. He warns that their orchestrated intimidation may mean he will not get his signatures—yet more people have declared their intention to vote for him than in the run-up to the last election. "In no other country," fumes Jamet, "could the candidate who came second in one election be barred from standing in the next."
In 2002, France profonde surprised many as the new growth area of the FN. If Le Pen gets his signatures, his support here may be even greater this time. In true populist tradition, he has always championed the small man who feels forgotten, and today few feel more forgotten than those trying to earn a living in rural France. In 2002 one farmer in four voted Le Pen, "because they feel betrayed by Europe and abandoned by Paris," according to my local FN organiser. Wine is another rural industry in crisis. In 2002 the FN vote in many southern wine villages grew to 30 per cent. Now, as consumption of French wine continues to fall, Brussels is proposing to destroy 400,000 hectares of vines. Le Pen's remedy, as with agriculture, is to hit back at Europe, halt globalisation, rebuild all things French.
But it's not just the farmers. The French countryside has a greater proportion of ouvriers (workers) now than the towns. The closure of a rural factory like Moulinex, on which dozens of villages depend, has a catastrophic effect across a large area where there is no other source of employment. Similarly, fear of offshoring from rural France to eastern Europe and beyond boosts Le Pen's vote: many of his new converts are disillusioned communists and his party is making inroads in the former fiefs of the radical rural left. Some areas of France profonde increased their FN vote by 10 per cent in 2002, and Le Pen has delegated one of his cleverest advisers, the MEP Jean-Claude Martinez, to co-ordinate his rural campaign. But first, everything hangs on whether he can persuade 500 mayors to brave public execration and political purdah by upholding democracy, or whether rural mayors decide democracy is better served by keeping Le Pen out—thwarting the 5.5m who voted for him last time. A true test of what living democracy means.
