On Saturday, the bell tower of Limoges’ beautiful 19th-century city hall collapsed in a tragic inferno. The building was ravaged by a fire officials say was set deliberately as a wave of violent disorder swept through French towns and cities. In Marseille, intruders briefly forced their way into the city hall.
Over in Bordeaux, rioters ransacked the prefect’s residence. In Paris and elsewhere, videos emerged of looters scuttling in and out of shops, sometimes in front of their distraught owners. By Monday, some 2,400 people had been arrested and nearly 1,000 police officers and gendarmes hurt.
Interior Minister Laurent Nuñez offered to resign—President Emmanuel Macron refused him—while conceding: “Yes, we lost control in some major cities.” Curfews followed that night in parts of Paris, Lyon, Lille and Nice. The prime minister described the situation as calm. But gilets-jaune organizers have already called for an "Act II" this Saturday, and unions a national strike on November 5.
It is tempting to call this yet another French riot and leave it at that. Typical protests about school conditions, the cost of living, and anger at Macron were hijacked by far-left agitators and opportunistic looters, who quite literally inflamed things. Protest is French culture.
But this destructive unrest is perhaps better understood as a ritual. For some 240 years, France has shown a singular talent for refusing the reforms it needs until crisis—revolution, bankruptcy, invasion—imposes them at ruinous cost. France cannot simply reform.
It must rupture, and repeatedly, to metamorphose. This is a habit that predates the Republic, itself founded in revolutionary violence that, in spirit if not in scale, would look familiar to 18th-century Jacobins in the past few days. Louis XVI’s indulgent monarchy bankrolled America’s war of independence.
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