In the summer of 1893, I was in Paris, partly on business, partly on pleasure. In the _Figaro_ one day, shortly after my arrival, I read about the marvelous exhibitions of magic of M. Caroly, who was attracting crowds to his _séances diaboliques_ at the Capucine Theatre of the Isola Brothers. I went to see the nineteenth-century necromancer exhibit his marvels. I saw some very clever illusions performed during the evening, but nothing that excited my especial interest as a devotee of the weird and wonderful, until the prestidigitateur came to his _pièce de résistance_—the Mask of Balsamo. That aroused my flagging attention. M. Caroly brought forward a small table, undraped, which he placed in the center aisle of the theatre; and then passed around for examination the mask of a man, very much resembling a death-mask, but unlike that ghastly _memento mori_ in the particulars that it was exquisitely modeled in wax and artistically colored. “Messieurs et mesdames,” said the professor of magic and mystery, “this mask is a perfect likeness of Joseph Balsamo, Count de Cagliostro, the famous sorcerer of the eighteenth {43} century. It is a reproduction of a death-mask which is contained in the secret museum of the Vatican at Rome. Behold! I lay the mask upon this table in your midst. Ask any question you please and it will respond.” The mask rocked to and fro with weird effect at the bidding of the conjurer, rapping out frequent answers to queries put by the spectators. It was an ingenious electrical trick.[7] Being already acquainted with the secret of the surprising experiment in natural magic, I evinced no emotion at the extraordinary behavior of the mask. But I was intensely interested in the mask itself. Was it indeed a true likeness of the great Cagliostro, the prince of charlatans? I repaired to the manager’s office at the close of the _soirée magique_, and sought an introduction to M. Caroly. “Is monsieur an aspiring amateur who wishes to take lessons in legerdemain?” “No!” I replied. “Pardon! Then monsieur is desirous of purchasing the secrets of some of the little _jeux_?” I replied as before in the negative. The manager shrugged his shoulders, toyed with his ponderous watch-chain, and elevated his eyebrows inquiringly. “I simply wish to ascertain whether the mask of Balsamo was really modeled from a genuine death-mask of the old-world wizard.” “Monsieur, I can answer that question,” said the theatrical man, “without an appeal to the artist who performed this evening. It was taken from a likeness of the eighteenth-century sorcerer, not a death-mask as stated, but a rare old medallion cast in the year 1785. Unfortunately this is not in our possession.” {44}