Their collaboration lasted eight years, unfolding at a breakneck pace. No case daunted them. They might defend rogue French trader Jérôme Kerviel, place their services at the disposal of Caucasian despots eager to burnish their images, or present the findings of an obscure chamber of notaries. “When we needed to fill the room,” Jublin recalls, “I’d pick up the phone and sell my pitch.” At the office, ideas flew and billable hours racked up. Then, in the evenings, Chapelotte and Jublin would meet up to party. You should have seen them in the mid-2010s in the VIP area of Club Sandwich—the capital’s hottest gay party—mingling with masked older gentlemen, shirtless young Adonises, and a whole crowd of night owls ready to blur the lines until dawn. “Looking back,” he realizes, “it was surreal to find myself there, dressed as a woman, right next to my boss.”
Was it thanks to Chapelotte that Jublin finally embraced his true self? Sometimes, he carries her pink Kelly bag as they stroll along Avenue Montaigne. His androgynous look draws stares, and he plays it up. For the thirtieth birthday of his best friend, Frédéric, Jublin shows up dressed as the perfect Lady Di—complete with the “revenge dress” and a pearl necklace. One final “formality” remained: telling his parents. The moment Jublin broke the news—at least as he recounts it—played out like a Freudian slip. One morning at dawn, returning home after a wild night out, he discovered his bank card had been stolen. Instinctively, he called his mother. Then he hung up immediately, realizing she would still be asleep at that hour. Too late; she called back. Once, twice. Finally, he answered. She struggled to grasp the situation: “But where did you lose your card?”
“In a gay bar.”
“But what were you doing there?”
“Because I’m gay, Mom.”
From the back of the room, he hears his father shouting: “What is this all about? I’m going to go get him.” Jublin recounts the aftermath with quiet reserve: “I went back to Thouars the following weekend, and it went well. My parents accepted it, and we never spoke of it again.”
Gabriel Attal didn’t hesitate long before agreeing to this interview. “Of course,” he replied via WhatsApp, the day before announcing his bid for the presidency. Now, he looks at me warily, his legs curled up on the sofa. “You’re here to talk about Louis Jublin, right?”
Originally published by Vanity Fair France. Read the full article in issue 143 of the print edition, available on newsstands and for single-issue purchase here.
