Joy on a scale unprecedented, even by the most extravagant standards of the World Cup, engulfed the Stade de France last night after two goals from Zinedine Zidane and another from Emmanuel Petit, had delivered the result coveted by millions of their compatriots.

Brazil, the country by which all others measure standards, had been brought to heel and the experience was savoured by all who espoused the cause of the underdog.

Zidane's headed goals lit the fuse on a remarkable night of emotion which was inflamed still further after Marcel Desailly had been sent off in the 67th minute for the second of two yellow card offences.

With their other established central defender, Laurent Blanc already sidelined, it marked the start of a long, tense countdown which may have seemed like an eternity to the French bench. Time was the only thing which dragged, however, as the winners dredged extra running power from rapidly emptying tanks to polish their win with Petit's late goal.

That this Brazilian team was more vulnerable than others who have worn the feared yellow and blue strip, was scarcely in question at any stage of the championship. Lacking the sleight of foot of their predecessors, they frequently looked like a side bereft of leadership in this, their seventh game in the competition.

And yet, it ought not obscure the fact that in Aime Jacquet's oft maligned team, the world has found worthy champions. Consistently pilloried by the French press, dismissed by others as lacking the front line resources to go all the way with their challenge, they made it in the end with skill and commitment that brooked no real argument.

Inevitably, there will be those who say that even in this, perhaps the finest hour in French sporting history, they looked someway short of the class which characterised earlier champions. In the sense, that theirs is a positively lightweight attack, the comment is valid.

But let there be no doubt about the quality of a defence which looked adversity in the eye to win out in the end or the efficiency of a midfield formation which had earlier stood accused of lacking either the vision or the courage to get in among opposing defences.

This was the occasion when they gave the lie emphatically to that theory and inevitably, it was the elegant Zidane, dismissed in shame in a preliminary game against Saudi Arabia, who led the way.

Finding space in the tightest of situations, beating opponents with the tiniest adjustment of the ball, his was the performance which decorated this famous success. At times when those around him may have been on the fringes of disillusionment, he supplied the sophistication and the experience which brought them safely home.

His opening goal in the 28th minute, was the product of superb timing as he climbed above Rivaldo to meet Petit's corner kick and the glancing header was already safely in the net before Taffarel, the Brazilian goalkeeper, quite knew what was happening.

If that decisive strike, testified to his prowess in set piece situations, the message was obviously lost on the Brazilians who again failed to pick him up when Youri Djorkaeff floated another corner, this time from the left flank on the stroke of half-time. Once more the near post finish was lethal and the French, against all the odds, were two goals clear at the interval.

Predictably, Brazil, with Denilson in for the out of sorts, Leonardo, restarted with all guns firing and for 10 minutes or more raked Fabien Barthez's goal. A score then might have pointed the way back for the champions but when Barthez, that most improbable of goalkeepers made a suitably improbable save at point blank from Ronaldo in the 56th minute, one sensed that the hand of fate was resting on France's shoulder in their attempt to become the seventh country to lift the trophy.

Petit's goal, the first from open play in a World Cup final since 1986, was an all-Arsenal affair as he took a pass from Patrick Vieira in his stride to fire the ball home in the last minute but at that point, it was academic. The bonfires were alight throughout France, and football had found worthy new standard bearers.

It was primarily, a victory for organisation and it showed in the manner in which Jacquet had produced a defence which even under the most torrid pressure never flinched. Lilian Thuram, less spectacular on this occasion, combined with Bixente Lizarazu to hold the flanks and in the centre Frank Lebouef answered doubts about his ability by complementing Desailly perfectly.

Didier Deschamps, compact as ever, was the stabilising influence in midfield and with Petit also prospering in the setting, it made for a situation in which their front line limitations were successfully disguised.

For Brazil, it was a dismal night, characterised by Ronaldo's failure to make any real impact. Dunga, often losing contact with Zidane, was never the force of old and with Cesar Sampaio also under pressure, their defence was at best sketchy.

Given the breathtaking backdrop, it was a game which could scarcely fail to set the pulse racing after the strains of the Marseillaise, sung with passion by some 70,000 French people, had risen into the skies over Paris.

The accompaniment for the Brazilian national anthem, was less stirring on this occasion, possibly because their supporters were still recovering from the shock of noting that Ronaldo's name was missing from the original team sheet.

It was some 15 minutes before the error was corrected and by that stage, it is fair to assume that a sizeable number of South American supporters were in an advanced state of depression.

In the event, it would prove prophetic for just as they had done in earlier games, the French came out with all guns blazing and inside four minutes, Zidane had sliced a way past the Brazilian central defenders to give Guivarc'h the kind of chance that in-form strikers crave.

But the hapless Guivarc'h is in no mood these days to make anything look easy and the most inept of finishing efforts trickled harmlessly wide.

For Jacquet, forced to go with strikers who were either not up to the challenge or too immature, his was an epic voyage in faith. As the confidence, or what was left of it, began to ebb still further from the front men, Jacquet, like hordes of his countrymen, began to look further back through the field for inspiration.

That Zidane, gliding phantomlike through tackles, would meet the requirement, was always a realistic prospect.

Fabien Barthez's flamboyant if occasionally erratic goalkeeping, was another bonus but twice in quick succession, this magnetic personality was culpable of playing, unfairly on the nerves of those willing him to heroics.

In the first instance, he almost stepped over his line in catching, one handed, a tantalising cross from Ronaldo and then, when Rivaldo met Leonardo's corner kick on the full with his head, the goalkeeper dropped panther-like, on the ball with not an inch separating him from disaster.

Zidane's first goal just four minutes later, would steady a rocky ship, however, and when he delivered his second on the stroke of half time, the French were headed exultantly for port.

In between, Petit had seen a shot deflected by Junior Baiano in a situation in which the crowd had every reason to expect the Brazilian net to billow and when Guivarc'h at last got one on target, Taffarel was perfectly positioned to make the save.

Through it all, Desailly, standing like an oak at the centre of the home defence, had reduced the threat presented by Ronaldo to manageable proportions but then in that incident which reopened the open wound of Blanc's dismissal against Croatia, he was off.

This French team had journeyed too far, surmounted too many challenges, to be deflected from the fulfilment of their destiny, however, and as tension mellowed into relief and relief to pure joy, their ship had finally come home.