The picture in today's Var-Matin tells its own tale.
Jacques Chirac may indeed be happy to be back among friends in the Var, a familiar spring and summer haunt, but he is hardly looking a picture of health.
There is no clue as to the extent to which the strain of forthcoming criminal proceedings in Paris, a relic of the City Hall bogus jobs scandal, is weighing on his mind.
But on his traditional sortie into Saint Tropez for l'apéritif at the harbourfront Sénéquier terrace cafe, he looked pale, worn and, as Var-Matin had it in a page one headline, weakened, not least by comparison with his sturdier appearance in April.
Maybe it's his age (79 this year) and the ravages of half a century of demanding public life; maybe he was just feeling grumpy at having to make do, on whatever advice, with a tomato juice; I do believe he is partial to stronger stuff (though I am now told it may well have included a generous portion of Pernod!). Var-Matin made pointed reference to the wrist brace he was wearing and other reports said he walked unsteadily.
A few days as the guest of his pal, the Breton billionaire François Pinault may of course, do wonders for his spirits. I hope so, remembering that I am that rare creature, an Englishman who quite likes the old rogue. If my less sympathetic confrères in the British media report on the state of his health, you may reasonably assume it will be in somewhat gloating terms.
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