Two Rounds

Three weeks had passed since the debate.

The effects were felt as early as the next day. Voting intentions in favor of the Rousseau-Cobot duo had jumped by eight points. Then, against all odds, the progression did not stop. Each new poll confirmed the same trend: the Rousseau-Cobot duo gained, on average, more than one point of voting intentions per day. Commentators spoke of an unprecedented phenomenon.

Rousseau and Cobot continued the strategy that had brought them success during the debate. Every day, they broadcast a short intervention dedicated to a major societal issue: pensions, health, debt, security, energy... No slogans, no spectacular promises. Only facts, verifiable figures, and an explanation of the different possible options.

Very quickly, an unexpected word-of-mouth spread.

— At least, he doesn't lie.

— He hides nothing from us.

The phrase was repeated everywhere: in cafes, on social networks, even on television sets. For the first time in a long time, transparency seemed to pay off more than promises, even when the facts contradicted expectations.

When the first round arrived, no one knew how high this wave could rise.

Against all predictions, François Rousseau secured his qualification for the second round by coming in second just behind Antoine Chevalier, and with less than a point ahead of the third. A result that raised a question no one dared to dismiss anymore:

Were the French really about to elect a man-machine duo to the presidency of the Republic?

The result of the second round was due that evening.

I arrived in the late afternoon at the campaign headquarters of Rousseau and Cobot, on rue Saint-Jacques. Large posters showed them side by side. Their slogan embraced its own paradox: "Fewer slogans. More facts." Printed in large blue letters, the phrase covered the windows of the entire street.

Inside, the room seemed too small to contain the anticipation.

Volunteers wandered aimlessly. One adjusted an already straight chair. Another moved a box only to place it almost in the same spot. No one could stay still. The rustling of jackets, the notifications of phones, the continuous murmur of news channels on in a corner could be heard.

Eva was sitting on the edge of a table, her phone in hand. She scrolled through the latest estimates with an almost painful concentration.

— Do you believe it? I asked, sitting next to her. Can we really win tonight?

Eva looked up from her phone.

— I thought journalists never said "we."

I lowered my eyes, smiling.

— Touché. I don't say who I vote for.

Her thumb hovered above the screen.

— Fifteen days ago, I would have said no. Without hesitation. But since the exchange on pensions and growth...

She left her sentence hanging.

On one of the screens, Antoine Chevalier's face reappeared in a montage dedicated to the "decisive moments of the campaign." The debate stage. His silence. His evasive gaze. Then, opposite, Cobot, motionless, precise, impossible to destabilize.

— He never really recovered, I said.

Eva gave a brief, joyless smile.

— How could he? The video circulated for days. And after him, two other candidates were caught in the same way. In every interview, journalists asked them questions to which Cobot responded immediately and factually, while they stammered evasive answers.

She locked her phone, then held it tightly between her hands.

— Cobot responds with facts and figures. I think people are tired of being talked to without ever being answered.

She glanced around the room, at the volunteers, at the posters on the walls.

— It's not just what we said that made us rise. It's everything the others failed to say.

— The first round remains a feat, I murmured. Three weeks ago, no one believed it.

— Now, the country talks only about him.

Her voice had lowered.

— I read an article yesterday. Colleagues who no longer speak to each other because of Cobot. Families who avoid the subject at the table. Even people who say they hate him can't help but talk about him.

She looked up at me.

— No one remained indifferent.

Near the window, François Rousseau had been pacing for several minutes. Until then, I had barely noticed him. He walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back, gaze lost on the street. At Eva's remark, he stopped abruptly.

— Except that tonight, it's no longer the same match, he said.

His voice cut through the room more sharply than expected. Eva and I turned to him.

Rousseau was still staring at the window. Outside, journalists were beginning to line up behind the metal barriers. The cameras were already focused on the entrance, ready to capture a victory or a collapse.

— In the first round, we played the surprise, he continued. Tonight, we play against Chevalier alone. With the machinery of a major party behind him, elected officials everywhere, connections everywhere, people who know how to hold an election until the last minute.

He turned back to us.

— I only have Cobot.

No one responded.

The sentence fell between us with a strange weight. As if, for the first time, Rousseau had just admitted out loud what everyone already knew.

— Do you really think we can lose? I asked him.

He lowered his eyes for a moment, then turned them back to the street.

— I don't know.

His hand rested against the window ledge. Behind him, on the screens, the red banners were already announcing the evening's special edition.

— No one knows, tonight.

Cobot, sitting a little further away, was following the news channels without a word. On his chest, his central screen oscillated between pale shades that shifted from blue to gray, then returned to an almost white hue. I couldn't tell if he was doubting, calculating, or simply mimicking our anxiety.

— The latest polls put Chevalier in the lead, he said at one point, without looking up. By a point. Barely.

He paused, as if giving everyone time to measure the smallness of this gap.

— It's within the margin of error. Statistically, no one can say who will win tonight. But if I had to remember just one number, it would be that one.

His screen brightened further.

— And it is not in our favor.

No one found anything to say.

François Rousseau stopped near the window. His gaze fixed on Cobot's screen, as if he could read there, transparently, the result before everyone else. Or his own defeat.

At seven fifty-nine, the channels launched their countdown.

The same tense music as every election night filled the room. First in the background, then everywhere. A soundscape too solemn, too familiar, which seemed to announce less a result than a verdict.

The entire room froze.

No one spoke anymore. The phones fell silent one after the other. A volunteer held a bottle of water open halfway to his mouth. Eva was no longer looking at her phone. Rousseau was no longer walking. Even Cobot seemed more immobile than usual.

There was only the music, looping from the screens, and the discreet tick of a clock that no one had noticed until then.

At precisely eight o'clock, the music stopped.

The silence that followed seemed even more violent.

On the main screen, the presenter's expression changed. Just a slight tightening at the corner of the mouth, barely a second. But the whole room saw it. That fraction of time when you understand that an important sentence is about to fall even before it is spoken.

I felt my heart race. In an absurd, almost shameful way, I felt that this result was going to decide something about me too.

— François Rousseau and his governmental assistant Cobot win this second round of the presidential election with 51.2% of the votes cast, announced the presenter.

His voice remained perfectly neutral.

For a second, no one moved.

51.2.

Enough to win. Too little to reconcile the country.

Then everything changed.

On Cobot's chest, the central screen turned a bright yellow. The most intense Eva had ever seen. As if, for the first time, joy overflowed the limits planned by the machine.

François Rousseau, however, remained petrified. Eyes riveted on the screen, mouth slightly open. A hand gripped the back of a chair, the time to catch his breath.

The room exploded.

A cry rose, somewhere between laughter and sobbing. People hugged, cried, called their loved ones. Phones emerged from everywhere. Others simply repeated:

— We won...

As if saying it several times could make the news more real.

The first activists rushed to Rousseau to shake his hand or embrace him. Then the gazes turned to Cobot.

A woman approached and naturally placed two kisses on his cheeks.

Cobot remained motionless.

His screen shifted from yellow to purple, then to blue, before returning to its bright yellow, as if searching for which emotion suited this unprecedented protocol.

Some laughter erupted.

Others imitated the woman. A handshake. A pat on the shoulder. A young man offered him a fist bump. After an imperceptible hesitation, Cobot reproduced the gesture with perfect precision.

— I think he's learning..., someone whispered.

Many in this room had never campaigned before. They believed they were voting for a simple idea: someone who finally answered questions.

That night, they discovered that an answer could win an election.

The duo moved towards the podium set up in the center of the stage. The microphones had been waiting for them since the beginning of the evening, motionless, aligned under the spotlights.

At the back of the room, the cameras of national and international channels turned towards them in unison. The red lights came on. This image would not remain on rue Saint-Jacques: it was already being broadcast live, picked up, commented on, dissected in dozens of countries.

François Rousseau placed both hands on the podium. He waited for the applause to subside, then thanked the French.

— I will be, with Cobot as governmental assistant, the president of all the French, without exception.

Cobot spoke in turn.

Facing the wall of lenses, he spoke neither of figures nor of projects. Not yet.

— Tonight, we are happy, for the entire country. We thank the voters for choosing reason over fear. And we promise that nothing will be neglected to improve the living conditions of all French people.

His synthetic voice, usually so neutral, seemed slightly slowed that night. As if he had understood that, among humans, solemnity was not only about words, but also about the silences left between them.

The details would come later. That night was not about tables, curves, or projections. It was about the faces turned towards him. Of this crowd that, for the first time, no longer looked at Cobot as an anomaly, but as an answer.

At the end of the speech, part of the room began to chant his name.

— Co-bot! Co-bot! Co-bot!

The cry was born near the stage before spreading throughout the room.

François Rousseau stood next to him, applauding with the expected smile of an elected president.

But something in his gaze had changed.

The cameras had gradually turned.

Not towards Rousseau.

Towards Cobot.

I saw this slight retreat, almost imperceptible. As if the place he had just conquered had moved a step ahead of him.

The French had just elected François Rousseau.

Yet, in this room, everyone seemed to celebrate another winner.

His smile remained intact.

His eyes, much less.

A few minutes later, the images were already making the rounds of the world.

The channels interrupted their programs.

The special editions followed one another.

The banners scrolled.

CNN: France elects world's first AI to the heart of government.

BBC: Robot at the gates of the Élysée.

Der Spiegel: Frankreich wagt das Unvorstellbare.

El País: La democracia entra en una nueva era.

Nikkei: Artificial intelligence reaches executive power.

The comments diverged.

Democratic revolution for some, historical mistake for others.

But all agreed on one point.

France had crossed a border that no one had imagined seeing crossed so soon.

When the journalists finally left the room, only the campaign's artisans remained.

The confetti stuck to the floor. The screens still broadcast the same images, without sound.

Eva came to sit next to me.

We watched Cobot respond, with the same patience, to the last selfie requests. His screen still shone with a bright yellow.

— You should be celebrating this, I told her.

She gave a faint smile.

— It's strange...

She kept her eyes fixed on Cobot.

— It's a bit like watching your child leave home.

She paused.

— You're proud because it's exactly what you hoped for him.

Her smile faded.

— And then you realize that from now on, he will experience things you can no longer control.

I understood immediately.

It wasn't the victory that worried her.

It was what came after.

We went out.

Outside, rue Saint-Jacques still vibrated with songs and honking. A few drones floated above the roofs while the television crews folded their projectors.

We walked in silence.

At one point, her shoulder brushed against mine.

She did not move away.

In a few days, Cobot would cross the gates of the Élysée.

He would no longer be the assistant of a candidate.

He would become the assistant of the President of the Republic.

Watching Eva walk beside me, I understood that her pride had changed in nature.

It now contained a question she did not yet dare to formulate.

Had she created something she would no longer be able to stop?