“If I am like most people, why take a particular interest in me?”

“You are not like most people. On the contrary, madame,” he said, “you are most interesting. You have a unique presence. You conduct yourself with the dignity and grace of an ancient soul.”

“And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on the matter?”

“Most assuredly! I have devoted my career to it. I have made it my life’s work.”

I admit I was more than a little amused that so young a man could refer to his life’s work. Despite my veil, I felt more than usually exposed by the candlepower of his gaze. “So let me ask you this,” I finally ventured, “is there such a thing?”

“As a soul? Most decidedly.”

“The work of a certain Englishman concludes against it.”

“Monsieur Darwin? I completely concur with all his ideas. The man is a genius. But on the subject of the soul he has nothing to say.”

“What do you have to say about it?”

He stroked his walrus mustache for a moment as he considered his reply. “I myself have nothing to add to the body of knowledge that already exists. But I concur with the Persian poet who said, A soul is more than the sum of intellect and emotions, more than the sum of experiences, though it runs like veins of brilliant metal through all three.” He leaned forward, holding up an index finger for emphasis. “It is an inner faculty that recognizes the animating mysteries of the world because it is made of the same substance.”

And so Balthazar began to tell me about his life, which, though young, overflowed with event and variety. It was a pleasure to listen to his tales, following each other like brightly painted carousel horses. He told stories with all the skill of a coffee-house raconteur. His brief but complicated existence could be summarized thus: he was the son of a Hungarian duchess, a famous beauty who had fallen in love with an Armenian maritime painter. His mother died giving birth, when Balthazar was eight. In his childhood he had been given, in his words, the finest education possible, consisting of Sufi poetry, the Arabian Nights, the writings of the ancient Greeks, and the algebra of the great Muslim mathematicians. He was a polymath: right now, he said, he was writing the music to a ballet that would represent the synthesis of all his teachings. He spoke seven languages: French, Russian, Magyar, English, Italian, Armenian, and Ancient Greek. He had learned hypnotism and mesmerism at the hands of French neurologists and Oriental mystics and claimed to be a master of the yogic and tantric arts. It was impossible to tell if he was an ingenious fraud or if he truly believed his preposterous claims.