The genesis of the trouble wasn't clear, but the upshot was that Blanc grabbed a handful of Bilic's chequered shirt with one hand, let go, and then cuffed the Croat lightly on the chin with the other.

Bilic reeled back, clutching his face as though a major assault had taken place. And off went the linchpin of the best defence in the World Cup.

Jose Manuel Garcia Aranda, the Spanish referee, could only go on what he believed he saw, and what he believed was Bilic's reaction.

As a result, the faithful Blanc, the scorer of that heroic sudden-death goal against Paraguay, now making his 73rd appearance in his country's shirt, would play no further part not only in the match but in the tournament. He was out of final.

This might have seemed less unjust had the Croatia players not spent the 73minutes of the match to that point showing us not just their footballing talent but their repertoire of acting skills.

Injustice, real or imagined, combined with the effect of three goals to arouse a crowd who had spent the opening 45 minutes shuffling in their seats and mentally compiling the weekend's shopping list. Two goals inside the first 90 seconds of the second period brought a fretful match to life and finally drew their attention to events on the pitch.

Thuram listens to Miles Davis in his spare time, but coolness is only a part of the armoury of this French quartet. They defend with wonderful passion, commitment and resolution. And now, in the sad absence of Blanc, presumably Frank Leboeuf will join Desailly in the centre of the rearguard, making the World Cup final a preview of things to come at Stamford Bridge next season.

Fifteen minutes before the kick-off there was considerably less of a sense of anticipation than might attend a couturier's catwalk show in a salon in the 16tharrondisement. In fact that was what many of the crowd seemed to have dressed up for, in their camel sports-jackets and Chanel twin-sets.

But then the France team's nicknames make them sound like a bunch of models - although goodness knows what kind of models Titi, Liza, Zizou and Lolo might be (that's Thierry Henry, Bixente Lizarazu, Zinedine Zidane and Laurent Blanc to you). Last night, in front of Jacques Chirac and Lionel Jospin, they presented a show containing all the attractive virtues and harmless vices of French football.

It was a remarkable contrast to the previous night's semi-final in Marseille, where the fans of Holland and Brazil mixed together like a tray of oranges and lemons in an exemplary display of football appreciation, all their feeling focused not just into a desire for victory but into a basic enthusiasm for the game.

And just as the Brazilians and the Dutch had responded to their fervour inside the Stade Velodrome with a game that stirred the blood, so the French and the Croatswere affected by the atmosphere in the Stade de France, finding it difficult to wind up the passion of their game. Not only could you hear yourself think, you could hear the players think. In the case of the French, how on earth are we going to score?

The Croatians, big men with short strides and neat control, are the Colombians of Europe - the only Old World team still wanting to stroll around, caressing the ball to each other, playing slow-slow-quick-quick-slow in the hope of catching the opposing defence napping with a sudden strike.

And as long as they have a finisher like Suker, who has the face of a concert pianist and the feet of Fred Astaire, they will have a chance in a low-scoring game.

So at last France have reached a World Cup final, the eighth host naion to do so in 16 editions of the tournament, five of the previous seven having gone on to make home advantage count in the final. Knocked out by Italy in the quarter-finals in Paris in 1938, France have been blocked at the semi-final on threeoccasions - beaten 5-2 by Brazil in Stockholm in 1958, with a second-half hat-trick by the 17-year-old Pele, beaten 5-4 on penalties after drawing 3-3 with West Germany in Seville in the infamous Schumacher/Battiston match, and beaten again by the Germans in Guadalajara four years later, having worn themselves out in a glorious quarter-final victory over Brazil.

Given the present form of their attack, it is hard to see how France can hope to find the goals to beat this year's crop of Brazilians in Paris on Sunday night. But whatever the rights or wrongs of Blanc's fate, it is unlikely to reduce their collective commitment to the task.