Les Bleus rejoice under a Paris sky as rightful Six Nations rulers

Beneath a fiery sky on Saturday evening in the Parisian commune of Saint-Denis the distinct French rumble stretched deep into the city. Before this bloody battle between two familiar foes there rose a swirling passion from within: pride of a nation, pride of an entity. Tricolore's tangoing in the colourful crowd with a few dollops of white scattered around a euphoric Stade de France. The merciless muscles of their fearless soldiers sent the English flailing. The whizzing noise crackling under the bright white bulbs above marked a first French Grand Chalem in 12 long, painful years.

Dylan Cretin and Thomas Ramos raised the sparkling Six Nations Trophy surrounded by a swarm of smiles and fireworks, shooting up into the abyss above. This was a tournament that will be recalled for a panoply of moments: Italy’s victory, Wales’ plight, and of course Antoine Dupont’s devastating drive. It was the unmistakable scrum half who added the polish to his Les Bleus’ 25-13 win over Eddie Jones’ listless England. It was not as if those that had crossed the Channel simply dropped onto one knee and surrendered the sword…France were just too good.

But this was the perpetual tale: Italy blown back to Rome, Ireland humbled in Paris, Scotland bloodless at Murrayfield, Wales fruitless in Cardiff, and England wheezing on the glorious green grass of France’s sporting home. There were the intermittent faults, schleps and jitters felt by the home players and crowd alike but through it all they ceased to renounce their authority over an England setup windmilling in the midst of transition. Stronger in the scrums, rampant in the rucks, fitter in the flesh; this was a Grand Slam champion worthy of all the pyrotechnics and pretty ribbons thrown their way.

For over a decade the nation has wept in the shadows and licked its wounds of a generation muted by its disrepute. Instead of descending into entropy they carried their country to success. Years of heaping the hope solely onto the silky eleven that roam with the ball at their feet rather than in their hands, the final chapter in this noble story of rugby redemption opened with the right boot of Melvyn Jaminet slapping it through the posts from 35 metres. Volume heightened, magnitude increased, the cracked decibel metre soon replaced by a seismograph as the rooster roared on into the night.

And with each fleeting sprint, carry, surge to the try line they extended their lead, plunging ever deeper into the thick adrenal senses of the stadium. Patterns of pure blue gorgeosity flowing delicately between England’s tacklers. They moved the ball quicker. They showed what it meant to play for such an accolade. As the interval loomed and the French flooded deeper into opposition half Francois Cros delivered the kick to the ribs, the outstretched arm. Such dedication to plough through a myriad of bodies after another ruck triumphed. 18-6 the half time lead. 40 minutes from grandeur.

In the stands the supremely cool Fabien Galthié showed little emotion as he oversaw a masterpiece. A Sir Alex Fergurson-esque act at Old Trafford where he could afford to rest on his seat as he watched his team dominate their opponent. As the minutes rolled by a truculent smile began to emerge from below his not-so-inconspicuous spectacles. It’s a fashion statement. And on the immaculate blades of lawn his own creation were making a statement. One of intent and warning, of psyche and prissiness, guile and revival. These are the seeds for prosperity. Not merely a moment to saviour, but a future to prosper.

Their fate was sealed on 61 minutes. Working it smoothly left and right Grégory Alldritt drops it into the paws of Dupont as he spots the separation. The stars in the sporting heavens aligned to gift the Grand Slam confirmation try to the world’s finest. Mouthguard exposed as he dashes the remaining metres to greatness, ball clutched in his left hand like his and his nation’s existence depend on it, there is no stopping the inevitable. Resilient and rugged once more to deny England of any sniff, any route; this was France’s Six Nations. Tears of the utmost joy stream down the cheeks of Dupont. The crowd on their feet, deafening as they deliver a guttural cheer. This is not just a trophy returning to France, but an entire sport as a whole.

In 18 months' time these revellers will host rugby union's 2023 World Cup. A fitting choice given its side’s oozing potential, the warmer Spring air hums with a renewed hunger of optimism. Famished for further zesty tastes, the expectancy rises with this remarkable group. Together, they provide a potentially limitless source of capability. And so, for all the ominous auguries, France can rejoice as one. In the streets and in the homes, with the ones they cherish the most.

Allons enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé.