I was about to tell him he was wrong to dwell on it,
because it really didn’t matter. But he cut me off and
urged me one last time, drawing himself up to his full
height and asking me if I believed in God. I said no. He
sat down indignantly. He said it was impossible; all men
believed in God, even those who turn their backs on him.
That was his belief, and if he were ever to doubt it, his
life would become meaningless. “Do you want my life to
be meaningless?” he shouted. As far as I could see, it
didn’t have anything to do with me, and I told him so.
But from across the table he had already thrust the
crucifix in my face and was screaming irrationally, “I
am a Christian. I ask Him to forgive you your sins. How
can you not believe that He suffered for you?” I was
struck by how sincere he seemed, but I had had enough.
It was getting hotter and hotter. As always, whenever I
want to get rid of someone I’m not really listening to,
I made it appear as if I agreed. To my surprise, he acted
triumphant. “You see, you see!” he said. “You do believe,
don’t you, and you’re going to place your trust in Him,
aren’t you?” Obviously, I again said no. He fell back
in his chair.
He seemed to be very tired. He didn’t say anything
for a minute while the typewriter, which hadn’t let up
the whole time, was still tapping out the last few sentences. Then he looked at me closely and with a little
sadness in his face. In a low voice he said, “I have never
seen a soul as hardened as yours. The criminals who have
come before me have always wept at the sight of this
image of suffering.” I was about to say that that was precisely because they were criminals. But then I
realized that I was one too. It was an idea I couldn’t get
used to. Then the judge stood up, as if to give me the
signal that the examination was over. He simply asked,
in the same weary tone, if I was sorry for what I had
done. I thought about it for a minute and said that
more than sorry I felt kind of annoyed. I got the impression he didn’t understand. But that was as far as
things went that day.
After that, I saw a lot of the magistrate, except that
my lawyer was with me each time. But it was just a
matter of clarifying certain things in my previous statements. Or else the magistrate would discuss the charges
with my lawyer. But on those occasions they never really
paid much attention to me. Anyway, the tone of the questioning gradually changed. The magistrate seemed to
have lost interest in me and to have come to some sort
of decision about my case. He didn’t talk to me about
God anymore, and I never saw him as worked up as he
was that first day. The result was that our discussions
became more cordial. A few questions, a brief conversation with my lawyer, and the examinations were over.
As the magistrate put it, my case was taking its course.
And then sometimes, when the conversation was of a
more general nature, I would be included. I started to
breathe more freely. No one, in any of these meetings,
was rough with me. Everything was so natural, so well
handled, and so calmly acted out that I had the ridiculous impression of being “one of the family.” And I can say that at the end of the eleven months that this investigation lasted, I was almost surprised that I had ever
enjoyed anything other than those rare moments when
the judge would lead me to the door of his office, slap me
on the shoulder, and say to me cordially, “That’s all for
today, Monsieur Antichrist.” I would then be handed
back over to the police.