The troublemaker

Narrow gate

Everyone dispersed, except Charles and the priest. They went to the room he'd found closed earlier.

The study had a large window with a vase of Anduze in full bloom. The fading sun shaved the forest peaks and crossed the gladioli in the bouquet to halo the center of the parquet floor in mauve. A handsome Louis XVI bookcase was lined with battered paperbacks on a variety of spiritual subjects. Another cabinet with plywood shelves held archive boxes bearing the names of current and former residents. Although an antique PC sat on the desk cluttered with the curé's paperwork, dematerialization seemed to have lagged behind in this portion of the French administration of Justice. A meeting table with six bistro chairs, on a faded Moroccan carpet, occupied half the space. The priest invited his visitor to sit down. He took a bottle of myrtle liqueur and two glasses from an old secretary.

- This little after-dinner drink," he commented as he sat down opposite his interlocutor at the table, "is a nice vice. I confess it to my doctor every time I visit. The pig never gives me absolution! If only I did the same with my strange parishioners... ! Would you like some?

- Why not? He wasn't overly fond of these strong, sweet liqueurs. However, he didn't want to offend the old man, who was once again polite.

They took a first sip without toasting, and the priest continued:

- So I owe you an explanation. I'll give it to you. To introduce things properly, I need to ask you a few questions first. Is that all right?

- That's fine.

- Have you seen anything strange lately?

- I've been hallucinating since yesterday.

- Good, good, what kind?

- I see two little girls following me around.

- Are they around?

- No, they stayed behind when that Fatima woman came to save me from the three guys who shot at us. Well, I mean, the shock of that shooting knocked some sense into me and stopped my hallucinations.

- Did the girls tell you who they were?

- It doesn't matter, because they're hallucinations. They're inventions of my head, as my doctor has confirmed.

- Tell me about it...

- In my fantasy, they told me they were angels and that their names were Jeanne and Thérèse.

The old man nodded several times with a doubtful pout. He swallowed a swig of liqueur and declared:

- I've never heard anything like it. It's something new.

- That's normal, you're not a doctor.

The old man smiled and gently ironized:

- At most, a doctor of souls.

After a silence, he continued:

- Let's leave the subject of little angels. Could you tell me where you stand on faith?

For a second, Charles thought he was asking about his digestion and the state of his liver. Recalling the context, he realized that the old man was obviously talking about religion.

- I don't want to upset you, Monsieur le Curé, but I'm an atheist.

- Agnostic or atheist?" asked the priest.

Charles knew the difference and understood the trap he was walking into. The agnostic considers that he knows nothing of the afterlife and therefore makes no pronouncement on the subject. The atheist is convinced that God doesn't exist, but can no more offer proof of his certainty than the believer. No one can demonstrate either the existence or the non-existence of God. So to call oneself an atheist, to claim to know, is absurd and pretentious. Despite this trap, Charles preferred to state his atheism clearly. He had always regarded agnosticism as a kind of lukewarm half-wit, a soft centrism afraid to commit itself.