“Alas! alas! And at what hour to-morrow?”
“At six o’clock in the morning and, mark, at the same spot.”
“I will be there.”
This was the parting speech of the goldsmith, and, as it were, the last gasp of his conquered avarice. On the morrow, punctual to the appointed time, they met as before, Balsamo with his habitual coolness, Marano with his gold. They arrived in due course at the grotto, where the angels, consulted as on the previous day, returned the same oracles. Balsamo assumed ignorance of what would take place. With a terrific struggle, Marano deposited his gold and prepared to cross the threshold. He took one step forward, then started back, inquired if there were no danger in penetrating into the depths of the cavern, was assured of safety if the gold had been faithfully weighed, entered with more confidence, and again returned, these manœuvres being repeated several times, under the eyes of the adept, whose expression indicated the most uninterested indifference. At length, Marano took courage and proceeded so far that a return was impossible, for three black, muscular devils started out from the shadows and barred his path, giving vent to the most alarming growls. They seized him, forced him to whirl round and round for a long time, and then while the unhappy creature vainly invoked the assistance of Balsamo, they proceeded to cudgel him lustily till he dropped overwhelmed to the ground, when a clear voice bade him remain absolutely silent and motionless, for he would be instantaneously despatched if he stirred either hand or foot. The wretched man did not dare to disobey, but after a long swoon the complete stillness encouraged him to raise his head; he dragged himself as best he could to the mouth of the terrible grotto, looked round him, and found that the adept, the demons, and the gold had alike vanished.
When Balsamo arrived at Messina he was furnished with a very handsome sum to support the expenses of his sojourn therein, for the lion’s share of the booty obtained from the goldsmith had, of course, fallen to himself. He lodged in one of the chief inns near the port, and had prepared himself for further adventures, when he suddenly remembered that he had an old and affluent aunt in the town whom he took occasion to visit, but only to discover that she had recently died, leaving the bulk of her fortune to different churches of Messina, and distributing the rest to the poor. Doubtless the dutiful nephew paid to the memory of this ultra-Christian relation a just tribute of regrets, and anxious to inherit at least something from a person so eminent in sanctity, he determined to assume her family name, joined to a title of nobility, and from that time forward he commonly called himself the Count Alessandro Cagliostro. His penetrating and calculating mind, says one of his biographers, understood the prestige which attached to a title at a period when the privileges of birth still exercised an almost undisputed influence.
It was in the town of Messina that Balsamo first met with the mysterious alchemist Altotas, whom in his fabulous autobiography he represented as the oriental tutor of his infancy. As he was promenading one day near the jetty at the extremity of the port, he encountered an individual singularly habited, and possessed of a most remarkable countenance. This person, aged apparently about fifty years, seemed to be an Armenian, though, according to other accounts, he was a Spaniard or Greek. He wore a species of caftan, a silk bonnet, and the extremities of his breeches were concealed in a pair of wide boots. In his left hand he held a parasol, and in his right the end of a cord, to which was attached a graceful Albanian greyhound.
Whether from curiosity or by presentiment, Cagliostro saluted this grotesque being, who bowed slightly, but with satisfied dignity.
“You do not reside in Messina, signor?” he said in Sicilian, but with a marked foreign accent.
Cagliostro replied that he was tarrying for a few days, and they began to converse on the beauty of the town and on its advantageous situation, a kind of oriental imagery individualising the eloquence of the stranger, whose remarks were, moreover, adroitly adorned with a few appropriate compliments. He eluded inquiries as to his own identity, but offered to unveil the past of the Count Cagliostro, and to reveal what was actually passing in his mind at that moment. When Cagliostro hinted at sorcery, the Armenian smiled somewhat scornfully, and dilated on the ignorance of a nation which confused science with witchcraft, and prepared faggots for discoverers.