FRENCH HISTORY has long been marked by upheaval and revolt. The republic established by Charles de Gaulle in 1958 erupted a decade later in the student protests of May ‘68; the following year the general resigned. Emmanuel Macron faced months of widespread and violent demonstrations by gilets jaunes (yellow jackets) in 2018-19; the president sent armoured vehicles rolling over the cobblestones of the capital to restore order. Yet the apocalyptic scenes of torched civic buildings and looting in cities across France on October 17th were in some ways worse: they could lead the country into even greater division, and hand voters at next spring’s presidential election a choice between two extremes.

Even for a country hardened by street insurrection, the events at the weekend were shocking. The clock tower and roof of the 19th-century town hall in Limoges collapsed after it was set alight. Masked casseurs, or hooligans, broke into the town hall in Marseille and toppled a marble bust of Marianne, the country’s official symbol. In Bordeaux hooded teenage looters smashed the glass windows at Louis Vuitton and other shops, grabbing handbags, trainers and other stash.

One youngster swung his stolen merchandise inside a plastic shopping basket as if strolling back from the supermarket; others ripped Nike trainers from their boxes and ran. Plumes of black smoke billowed into the air. Riot police charged. Across the country over 2,000 people were arrested on Saturday alone. “This evening we are all feeling anger, and shame,” declared Mr Macron in a televised address.

For some of the half-million people who took part in the one-day protests, the descent into chaos was as dismaying as it was to those watching on screens. “The casseurs are discrediting our movement,” complained Pauline, a 20-year-old student at the University of Bordeaux, who said she was on the streets to demonstrate against “everything”, listing grievances from overcrowded lecture halls and high petrol prices to police repression. The president also featured on her list.

“Macron, t’es mort” (Macron, you’re dead) read graffiti near a smashed-up bus shelter, next to “ACAB”, or “all cops are bastards” and “1789” (the year of the French revolution). Protesting pupils, who have clashed with the police since mid-September, focused their anger and destruction on their own schools. This time rioters turned on the emblems of the state that provides them with a generous welfare system, first-rate public transport and one of the world’s highest qualities of life.

The context for the riots is the underlying tension linked to next year’s election. After nearly a decade in office, the centrist Mr Macron is barred by the constitution from running again. Many of the protesting students have no memory of life under a different political leader. The country wants change, but is deeply divided about what should come next.

e side, supporters of Mr Mélenchon, who joined the demo in Paris, look at the more peaceful protests and see a muscular show of strength for their champion, who is running for president on the populist left. Yet supporters of Marine Le Pen, who is standing on the populist right, regard the protests as evidence that Mr Mélenchon is unfit for office and that Mr Macron cannot control the country. As the centre struggles to find a compelling candidate to succeed the president, polls suggest that the finalists at the two-round election next April and May could well be Mr Mélenchon and Ms Le Pen. If so, she would be almost certain to win.

It looks probable that the polarisation of public debate and the politicisation of the street will intensify over the next six months—and probably beyond. Were voters in 2027 to hand the keys to the Elysée Palace to Ms Le Pen, the favorite in the polls for more than the past year, it could prompt a new round of protests on the left. Divisive legislative elections are due after the presidential vote. Moreover, in contrast to the gilets jaunes protests, when Mr Macron had the fiscal space to write cheques to help calm things down, France’s public finances are in a dire state, and the bond markets are jittery.

The government’s budget deficit is expected to be 5.4% of GDP this year, one of the highest in the euro zone. France is now paying more to borrow than Italy or Greece, and this year will spend more on servicing its debt than on either education or defence.

Wariness in the markets and anger on the streets make for a toxic mix. Worse, as attention turns to law and order, France is even less likely to have the political conversation it badly needs: about what sort of welfare system it can afford and how to generate the wealth needed to sustain it. Instead, the leading politicians vow to lower the retirement age, thus depriving themselves of future savings on the single biggest item of public spending.

The main candidate who acknowledges that the pension age must rise—the centrist Edouard Philippe—has stalled in the polls. He and Mr Mélenchon are neck-and-neck in first-round voting on about 15-16%, far behind Ms Le Pen on 32%, according to a new poll.

There is a France that was not on the streets on Saturday, and knows what needs to be done. This silent constituency was out again in the terrace cafes in the late-autumn sunshine the day after the riots; one waiter in Bordeaux described the violence as “scandalous”. But the extremes are masterful at drowning out that voice. Unless the centre can find a persuasive way to tell a more responsible story, about the need for order in the public finances and on the streets, voters will end up with no choice at all.■