Louis Sarkozy, Napo baby

He gives a "dear madam, very honored" address, bows like a well-bred gentleman, a perfect smile, tidy in fine pearls, pectorals bulging in the immaculate shirt. And right from the start, a straight: " Libé , all the same, what a wokish rag..." Never read it, he admits, not embarrassed but curious to learn that the newspaper includes, in its ranks, Philippe Lançon, the goldsmith of Lambeau , survivor of the Charlie Hebdo massacre: "Ah, Charlie, I love it, fundamental to French culture. " It's 3 p.m., he hasn't had lunch, orders: coke, club sandwich, fries, finely golden in this hotel bar near the Etoile. "Fuck, I'm starving," he stretches, his mischievous blue eye making sure, if the journalist is stupid, that the ambitious allusion is understood.

What a collector's heir! Louis Sarkozy enters the scene just as his father is slipping away, wearing an electronic bracelet. He adores him, never stops paying homage to him, it's even more cruel. He probably doesn't see it. He's in his own trip. He's 28 years old. He wants to eat everything. He has the distinction of his mother, Cécilia. But he is the son of Nicolas, just as cheeky, emotional, animal, just the same, his thigh throbbing under the table and his verb gluttonous with quotes, from Marcus Aurelius to Zweig, "that genius who lost my virginity" . His right is more robust. He wants to slash the deficit, transform France "into an assimilation machine" , send back stubborn foreigners and delinquents to