A small part of Rugby World Cup 2033 died at the Stade de France last night, and that is meant as no disrespect to South Africa, Argentina, New Zealand and England, the remaining combatants.

For the last four years France have lived, breathed, eaten, slept and dreamed World Cup glory on their very own green green hybrid grass of home.

It came an abrupt and tearful end last night in the capital by the narrowest of margins, one single tantalisingly reachable point.

South Africa’s 29-28 victory was etched in the weary faces of commuters at Gare du Nord this morning as they sipped their takeaway espresso’s, staring in disbelief at a tearful Antoine Dupont on the front page of L’Equipe.

Just over two weeks ago I was sat in the press tribune at the Marseille Velodrome. It was a thundery, muggy Thursday night on the south coast, and France’ magical display of rugby wizardry left the capacity crowd in raptures.

The joy and elation that swirled around that magnificent stadium that night turned into a collective gasp of shock and horror as captain, scrum half and resident rugby genius, Antoine Dupont, left the field clutching his right cheek, a cheek that was already awash with his own tears. 

It felt to everyone looking on that his World Cup was over. The rugby world spent the next 24 hours looking up Zygomaticomaxillary complex fracture on Google search, looking in hope, rather than expectation, for a glimmer of good news to ease their fears.

A whole boat load of medical bulletins have passed under the Seine bridges since then, and amazingly last night, under the bright lights of Paris, just twenty-three days after surgery in Toulouse, the great man was back, and he and his esteemed colleagues were hoping to take a giant leap forward in their quest for Rugby World Cup glory.

The area around Stade de France had been buzzing since noon, a joyous colourful Sunday carnival, but as the sun set on a beautiful cloudless day defeat for France was not on the agenda.

The match itself was a throbbing brutal contest as expected, swaying back and forth and in doubt till the very last second.

The mostly home crowd ear splitting cheered every French success at scrum, line out and breakdown they did everything they could to get their boys over the line, but it wasn’t to be.

At the final whistle their were French bodies strewn across the field, prostrate, red-eyed, and utterly exhausted.

As the clock struck midnight the French fans had no interest in the fact that it was Monday morning and the start of the working week, they were crestfallen and by the look of it things will be moving very gingerly in the capital today.

For France they will wake up this morning with that awful feeling of stomach churning emptiness, they have thought about nothing other than winning this tournament. The stark reality will slowly hit that they now have to go back to normal life accompanied by that gut wrenching feeling that will take quite some time to dissipate.

A nation that has fallen in love with this team will put a collective arm around them, and they deserve nothing less, some would argue they deserve a lot more.

Merci les bleus