“Metempsychosis—do you believe in the existence of such a thing?”

“The transmigration of souls after death? Young man, I’m quite sure it is none of your business.”

“On the contrary, it is more than my business, it is my living! Behold, my name is Hippolyte Balthazar,” he said, extending his hand across the aisle of the carriage and holding it there a few seconds until I could not help but shake it. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Madame Édmonde Duchesne de Bressy,” I said, and instantly regretted it.

“I am an Orientalist,” he said.

“What is that?”

“Why, a scholar of the Oriental races! I have an especial interest in the question of metempsychosis, and have just completed a lecture tour of the United States and Canada, during which I spoke at length on the subject.” A part of me had taken an instant dislike to Monsieur Balthazar. Another was already in his thrall. My natural instinct was to stand and leave the buffet–library car at once, but in the confinement of journeys by rail or sea it is necessary to be diplomatic with one’s fellow passengers. It is no small inconvenience to avoid a passenger for the entirety of a long voyage all because of a slight or a cross word. “Madame de Bressy,” he continued, “as a student of the Oriental arts of meditation I have become adept at the perception of aura. Do you believe in such a thing, madame?”

“Monsieur, you keep asking me questions on subjects to which I have never given a moment’s thought.”

He leaped out of his chair and came to sit beside mine. “Madame,” he said, “I noticed your aura at once. Behold! It is a most remarkable aura, perhaps the most remarkable aura I have ever come across, more so even than that of President William McKinley, with whom I dined only a few months ago, and who really has a most magnificent aura.” And so he continued in this way for some time longer, and offered to read my aura—at no charge, of course—an offer that I refused with more firmness than politeness. But he continued all the same, despite my entreaties, until I determined to leave the buffet–library car, at which time, just as I was leaning forward to stand, he said something that arrested me.

“Madame,” he said, “there is a way out of the hall of mirrors in which you are imprisoned.”

I sat in that chair for some time looking at the young man, lost for words, before I lifted my veil and said to him, very slowly and low enough so that only he could hear: “Monsieur Balthazar, as you can clearly see, mirrors are of no use to me. If you speak to me again, I will see to it that you are ejected from this train.” I stood and, simulating an unhurried determination, walked off in the direction of my compartment, where I spent an agitated day and a restless night. A way out of the hall of mirrors … The phrase ricocheted in my mind.