CHAPTER I.

In the sixteenth century, kings and dukes still kept their fools. The Duke of Mantua had his—a poor hunch-back, whom they called Rigoletto. He was as witty as any fool in France or Italy; and he was an honest man in this—that he despised the courtiers, who bowed low before the tyranny of the duke, who broke up their families as a child would toys, and quite as fearlessly. And if, as the tale goes on, you find he had some human love in him, remember he is a hunch-back, and give him double praise.

The duke, whose whole life was a panorama of gallantry, despised his conquests; and, being handsome, believed no woman could withstand him. He was as heartless as he was handsome, and he had no affection for a living soul, unless, indeed, for Rigoletto, whom he loved for his power of satirizing the courtiers, who loved Rigoletto accordingly.

This fool, Rigoletto, was superstitious; moreover, he had a secret, which it was the hope of his life to keep from that terrible court; for a fool, a jester, a hunch-back, may have loves and secrets like other men.

The duke had discovered a beautiful girl, whom he followed daily as she went to prayers. For weeks he followed her each day, and yet all he learned was that she lived in a mean house in a mean street, and that every day the same unknown man visited her.

He still knew no more; when, on a certain night, he gave a grand ball at his palace. A happy, happy ball, where each man trembled as the giver of the feast turned eyes upon his wife or daughter! A happy, happy, fÊte! He was paying the Countess Ceprano great attention, when Rigoletto entered the hall, and saw the husband of the lady jealously watching them.

“What troubles you count?” said the fool, smiling maliciously.

Rigoletto turned away gibing at the courtiers, crossed the hall, and was gone.

Hardly had he left, than the Lord Marcello stepped quickly up to a group, declaring he had great news to tell them. They crowded about him, wondering what he had to say. ’Twas of Rigoletto. “What, had he lost his hump?” cried one. “Had he become straight?” cried another.

“No, no,” replied the lord. “Rigoletto, Rigoletto has a mistress!”

They all laughed merrily, perhaps a little cruelly, for men and women love to return blow for blow. “What a change, from a hunch-back to a cupid.” They were yet laughing, when the fool passed near them with the duke, who was still thinking of the Ceprano’s wife.

“Steal her away!” said the fool.

“Easily conceived, but not easily performed,” replied the duke.

“This very evening. Have you no prisons, great duke? Can you not banish him? Or take his head?”

“What, Ceprano’s head?” asked the duke aloud, and turning to that noble.

“Yes—what is it good for?”

The count drew his sword as the duke smiled, and the fool affected to be overcome with fear.

“Ah! ah! he is very amusing to-night.” But the fool did not see how menacingly the courtiers drew together, and frowned at him.

The duke lightly warned the fool that he might jest too deeply, and that the count’s sword might end his jokes.

“Bah! who shall be brave enough to touch the duke’s favorite?”

And he imitated the duke, and turned away from the group of nobles, not noticing their angry looks and gestures.

At this moment an aged lord appeared at the door, and violently thrust himself into the hall, though the servants tried all they could to hold him back. His hair was white, his limbs trembling—his was another family the duke had dishonored.

The guests started with surprise.

“I will see the duke, and even here blazon forth his crimes.”

“I will see the duke—and even here blazon forth his crimes,” exclaimed the fool, mockingly, and, as well as he could, imitating the grand posture of the aged noble.

“Poor wretch!”—— Then, turning to the duke, the lord again exclaimed that he spoke in the name of his dishonored family, and called for justice.

“Justice—justice!” continued the fool.

“Let him be arrested,” said the duke, as he frowned upon this new comer.

“He is mad,” said the fool, solemnly.

“He is mad,” repeated the courtiers.

“Be both accursed,” cried the old lord to the fool.

The soldiers seized him—“thou and thy shameful master—who can laugh at a father’s grief—be both accursed.”

The fool, as the curse was uttered, drew on one side, put his hands together affrightedly, and said to himself, his superstition all dominant, “He cursed me—he cursed me.”

Meanwhile, the cowardly courtiers merely looked after the doomed lord as he was led away.

* * * * *

That same night, when the weary dancing was over, and the duke no more required his fool, Rigoletto stole out, and went quickly to an obscure part of the city, to a high thick wall, in which was a small retiring door.

He had almost reached it, his head drooping at the thought of the terrible curse, when a ruffianly man jostled him. “Who are you? Go; I need you not.”

“Signor, I am a man who has a dagger at your service, ready at a word!”

“You are a thief.”

“No; but a man who for money will rid you of your rival. You have a rival.”

“Who is he?”

“Is not your mistress near at hand?”

The fool trembled violently for a little; but recovering, he hurriedly asked how much the fellow would charge to kill a man? How he would be sure to slay him?

The brigand said he struck his victims in the street, or in his own house.

His own house? How was that?

Said the brigand—his sister danced in the streets, she decoyed the man who was to fall, and, by his faith, the matter was at an end. And how did he kill? By his faith, noiselessly, with the sword which he then carried.

The fool hurriedly asked where he could meet him again, if he might want him—was told here, at that very spot, on any night. Rigoletto gave some money, and the ruffian slouched away.

Instead of opening the door, the fool stood looking after the brigand, and thinking what difference was there much between them? If the brigand wounded with his steel, he, the fool, thrust and wounded with his tongue. Then again he thought of the terrible curse, and turned towards a gloomy house at hand—the house of the very man who had but now cursed him. Then he thought that if he were bad, ’twas not his will, but the wills of nature and of men. To be deformed, to be a fool, to be condemned to laugh against his will, never to be pitied, never to gain tears! Then he frowned as he thought of the cowardly and hateful courtiers, and then again he was thinking of the awful curse—for surely a curse by one condemned to death might live—might live! He trembled as he asked himself why this thought so clung to him? Then warily he opened the door and crept in—into a courtyard, a jealous courtyard, which hid what it held from the common gaze by great high walls.

To him ran a beautiful girl, who kissed and embraced him. A mistress? No! no! His daughter—his daughter, whom he so loved, who made him human, who made him fear the curse! The mother of that girl had married him for pity’s sake, and the poor fool’s daughter knew not what her father was. She often wondered; and now, on this very night; she no sooner saw him than she began asking him gaily to tell her the long promised secret. She prayed him to tell her who had been her mother, what he himself, her father, was.

He confusedly parried her questions, and told her hurriedly that she must never leave the house—never except to prayers. She answered that for now three months he had ever spoken so; should she never, never see the city? Again he only warned her never to leave the house, and trembled as he thought that if he lost her they would only laugh at a poor fool’s loss.

Giovanna was his daughter’s companion and servant through the weary days, and as she now came from the house into the courtyard he ran to her, and nervously bade her guard his Gilda—his only child. Truth to tell, the memory of the curse sat heavily on him, and he trembled greatly.

Suddenly he thought he heard a noise at the gate; in the dark, thick night he rashly opened it, and ran two or three steps forward. Before he could return, a figure had glided into his stronghold and reached the shelter of a tree. Is there nothing that will warn him of the thief—the thief that came in that night to steal away his treasure? Is there nothing to prompt him to stay at home that night—near her to guard her? He has come to the house but for a few blest moments in which to see her; he hastens to creep back to the palace to play the fool again. This is one of the desolate nights when he may not creep to her door, and watch like a faithful dog till morning. He must return to the weary palace prison. “Good night, dear Gilda,” he says. The girl pouts, but the father kisses her frowns away, and says again, “Good night, dear daughter,” and unwisely turns away, and pulls to the creaking door.

“His daughter,” thought the thief, who had stolen through the doorway. “His daughter,” thought the duke, for it is he—“The fool, then has a daughter.”

So, while the father crept back to court, the duke was trying to gain the love of his innocent daughter, whispering that he was a poor student who thought only of her—“Gilda.”

At last the noble liar stole away again, and then, Gilda, thinking more of the supposed student than of her father, turned from the gate to which she had walked with the duke, and moved towards the house. She had to ascend a score of steps to reach a terrace, past which was the house, and as she arrived on the highest of those steps, she was seen from the dark street by several men, who said amongst each other, “See, that is she. How beautiful she is. That is Rigoletto’s mistress!”

At this moment the poor fool returned to his gate. “Why do I return? Alas! the curse, the curse!”

As he stood, the men in the street came near to Rigoletto, and so drew his attention to them. They knew him in a moment—the hunch showed plain. They were lords of the court; and amongst them was Ceprano, the count, who had drawn his sword upon the jester, and who now again drew it. “Softly,” whispered one to him; “if he is killed where will be our laughter to-morrow!” Then the speaker turned and told Rigoletto—who started as he spoke—they were there to steal from Ceprano his countess—that the fool must help them. They had the keys of the house, they said. See, the speaker handed to the trembling fool the keys.

The curse—he still thought of the curse as he took the keys. What if they had come to steal his treasure? For a moment he held these keys listlessly; then suddenly he swept a trembling fore-finger over the loop of one of them—and as he did so he half knelt and nearly wept aloud—for on the friendly steel he felt the count’s heraldic crest. So they were not deceiving him—they had come not to the house where lived his Gilda—but to the other—the other. Then, full of thanks, he had to laugh and make a sorry jest—because of their adventure.

“Come,” said the same speaker, “aid us,” and he placed on the fool’s face a mask, and bound it about his head with a handkerchief—and the next moment the poor creature was holding the ladder by which they climbed to steal his daughter.

Standing there, he heard the crash of wood as they forced a window. (“Why, if they had the keys,” he thought, “did they want a ladder? why break into the house?”) Then for a few moments there was silence. Then a door opened, feet trampled near him, he heard even a smothered cry. Still he remained holding the ladder, still he saw nothing, for a handkerchief, unknown to himself, was hanging over his eyes. Then the steps sounded more distant, and at last were lost altogether.

He waited a little, and was then startled as his wandering hand found the handkerchief hanging loosely over his eyes. He flung it from him, and oh! by the faint light, he saw, the whole terrible truth. The open garden gate,—a scarf that had fallen from her shoulders as she was carried away—the desolate home!

He ran in—round the garden like a chased rat—up the steps, till he reached the house—into it—tore at the serving-woman—dragged her forth silently and without a word—then at last, finding his voice, he cried, “The curse—the curse,” and fell upon the ground, mercifully insensible.

CHAPTER II.

Oh! the weary, weary hours till daylight; till he could search through the city for his daughter. The age of fear, with but a faint poor hope to bear him through it. See the poor fool who has mocked the aged lord—see him wandering up and down the house; then out into the streets; and then back again into the house, afraid to leave it! The house—how changed! And when he sees anything dearly associated with her, he touches it, kisses it—as though she were dead, and for her sake he loved it! Wearily, wearily dragging on life, till the crowd of courtiers met to receive the duke, on his rising for the day. Then the fool’s gay dress was donned again, covering his breaking heart, and the cap and bells mocking his deep, loving sighs.

“Good morning, Rigoletto—what news?”

“News? you are nearer hell to-day than yesterday, by a score of hours. (Oh! my child! where art thou, oh! my child!)”

“See,” they whispered to each other, “see how his eyes search for her. Mark how hardly he draws his breath!”

Then turning to them, he went on lightly, “You look well, gentlemen. Last night’s cold air, then, did you no harm?”

“Last night,” said one, “I slept well through the night.”

For an instant he thought perhaps it was all a dream; but the next moment he saw a mask and a handkerchief lying on a table. “See,” they said to one another, as he walked negligently to the table, “see how he marks all things!”

Then he saw the handkerchief was not hers, and still wondering if she were in the palace, he asked jauntily, “Is the duke still asleep?”

As he spoke, a page entered, and said the duchess desired to see the duke.

Said a courtier, “He is asleep.”

“But,” said the page, “he was awake not a minute since.”

“Canst thou not understand? He would not now be questioned.”

The fool heard this conversation, and guessed its meaning. “Ah! then she is here!”

“She—who?”

“The poor girl you stole from under my roof.”

“You are mad. If you have lost your mistress, ’tis not within these walls you will find her.”

For a moment he stood before them, jauntily and smiling as ever; then the revengeful lords might have surely been satisfied, for the mocked fool was at their feet.

“This is a new jest for thee, Rigoletto.”

All the small silver bells upon his head-dress rang as he clasped his hands together. “She is my daughter, she is my daughter. If, if I have offended you, you are great lords, and will not be revenged on a poor fool.”

Then he started to his feet as several courtiers looked meaningly towards a door, and ran towards it. But they pressed upon him, and drove him back. He battled with them hard, he threatened, yelled, overthrew them. All to no purpose; he was still far, far from the door. Then he wept, and in his wretchedness flattered them, and said he knew they had feeling hearts, and again asked them where was his daughter. And then again he fell upon his knees before them, before them who had so often flinched from him, and lowered his head humbly.

He was still kneeling when the door opened, and through it came his daughter—white, trembling, frightened.

She saw and ran to him, as he sprang from the ground.

“My daughter, my daughter! See you, my lords, she is my child, my only child! Oh, be not afraid, daughter, these are all noble lords; it was only in jest, only in jest. Why even I wept, but you see I am laughing now! But why dost thou weep, why dost thou weep?”

She made no answer, only hid her face lower and lower.

Then he flung himself down in a chair, half in mad jest, half in real madness, and in a pompous voice, cried out, “Begone, ye people, and bid the duke not approach while I remain here.”

They began to laugh, for the vengeance was complete; there was no more need to bar the door. Saying, fools and children must be humored, these great lords departed.

Then she confessed to him how each day going to church she saw a handsome stranger; how this stranger had come only the night before and told her he was poor and loved her. Then the men who had just left them tore her from her home; and the rest of her history was miserable silence.

A moment he held her from him; then he laid her head upon his breast and caressed her, and absolved himself of his sins by bitter, bitter tears. So then, heaven did not hear his prayer, that the curse should fall on him alone; it had, indeed, fallen on her. He stooped down, and kissed her as she lay in his arms; then he bade her look up, and told her that they would leave that place for ever.

Still she was weeping, and hiding her eyes from him, her father, when the door opened, and there stood the aged count, who on the day before had cursed him. He was surrounded by soldiers—had been condemned, and was now being led off to prison.

He did not see the fool; but as he came near to the fool he muttered, “So my curse was vain; this duke still lives. Is there no hand to be found to slay him?”

“Here, here,” whispered the fool, “here.” And though he rocked with fear he came a step forward, his daughter still in his encircling arms.

The next moment the one father had passed from the room, while the other again bent his head, wept over, and kissed his lost, and yet found, daughter.

CHAPTER III.

A stormy angry night; the wind weeping and whistling high up in the sky, and a thick stifling vapor crawling over the earth—over the whispering muddy river; winding in and out the gay palace like a poisonous serpent. Near to this sickening river was a cracked ruined house through the crevices in the walls of which might be observed a flickering light.

No house was near this wretched hut, which was called an inn. Within this place lived the ruffian who had accosted Rigoletto on the night when his daughter was stolen away. He was cleaning a leathern belt and singing softly at his work.

Who are these wayfarers, toiling along the dark road to the ruined inn? They are the fool and his daughter.

She still loved the duke; and the fool, hoping to kill the awful passion, had brought her to this lonely spot. He told her to creep softly to the house, and look in through the broken door. As she did so, the duke himself, now in a new disguise, came quickly along, and up to the door. She shrank back from him, and he passed into the inn, ordering a room and wine.

Then as she and her father stood shivering near the door, he began singing in dispraise of woman. They saw the brigand lay upon the table some bottles and glasses. That done, he struck the low ceiling several times, and immediately a girl came running into the room—a gipsey girl who danced about the streets. The duke ran to her as she avoided him, and the brigand came cautiously out upon the road.

“Shall he live, Signor Rigoletto?” whispered the ruffian.

“Wait—wait,” replied the father. And both men spoke so softly, that Gilda did not hear. She did not care to hear, as she looked once more on him whom she had so dearly loved when she thought him a poor student.

“Good,” said the bandit, and went out slowly into the darkness.

Then as the two stood there miserably, the duke began laughing and chatting with the gipsey girl. Soon Gilda was weeping, as was also her father. Yet still within the hut continued the laughter and the singing.

“Thou art sure now, he loves thee not—thou art sure now. Hear me: we will leave this country at once. Go thou home, dress thyself in the clothing of a nobleman, my child, and fly to Verona. Thou knowest where to go when thou art there. I will come to thee to-morrow.”

“Now—come with me now.”

“Now? No, not now.” He spoke with terrible hesitation.

The girl kissed her father and went towards their house. Through the gloom he watched her and saw her pass the garden gate. Then he searched about for the bravo. The assassin was lounging at the corner of the house, and at a motion from the fool he came forward.

Eagerly Rigoletto put money into his hand, saying the rest should be his when the man was dead. Then he turned away, saying that at midnight he would return.

The bravo carelessly replied that he had no need of help, he could, alone, cast the body into the river.

“No,” said the fool, suddenly stopping; “let that be my portion of the work.”

“Good,” said the assassin, carelessly; “who is he?”

“His name is Crime and mine is Punishment.”

The bravo shrugged his shoulders, and then carelessly opened the door of the hut, and entered, while the fool turned, and with downcast head, moved slowly away, afraid to go home till the vengeance was completed.

Loud roared the storm; the lightnings lit up the hovel, and the wavering thunder rolled incessantly. Yet had the assassin no fear.

The duke said he should remain all night, and bade the new comer leave them. But the gipsey girl prayed the young duke to depart. Said the bravo, he should be glad to place his room at the stranger’s disposal, and he hid the golden money the fool had given him.

The duke attended by the bravo, ascended a ricketty flight of stairs to a room, more dilapidated, if possible, than the one below.

Saying it was like sleeping in the open air, the noble flung down his hat and sword, fell upon the bed, and was soon asleep.

The ruffian by that time was drinking the wine the duke had left. At last he said slowly—“Go up, and if he sleeps, bring away his sword.”

The gipsey girl obeyed sorrowingly, for the stranger was so handsome that she had grown to feel some pity for him.

As she stole up the stairs another girl was near at hand—the wretched Gilda; who, disguised in the clothes of a page, came creeping towards the inn.

Nearer and nearer till she was close to the door and pressing it. Looking through the crevice, she saw the girl coming down with the sword glittering in her hand.

“Do not kill him—do not kill him,” cried the gipsey girl.

“Kill him!” cried the fool’s daughter.

There, still listening, she heard the gipsey tempt him, saying, that when the fool came back he could take his money and kill him. But the bravo angrily cried that his honor was dear to him; he would not kill the fool, he would slay the stranger. Rigoletto had paid him well.

Gilda shuddered as she listened; so her father had paid the bravo to kill the duke.

Again the gipsey girl prayed for the stranger’s life. Again the assassin refused. At last he said quickly that if a traveller came past he would slay him in his place—the fool could not tell who might be in the sack.

Then the gipsey wept as she said there was no hope of a traveller passing while the storm raged so fiercely.

Why does she tremble and draw back from the crevice? What? shall this woman, this dancing gipsey, weep and pray for him? And shall she, Gilda, do nothing to save him? Who is this woman that she should weep for him? Will she—this gipsey—die for his sake? Yet she, Gilda, could. Again she looked, and saw the gipsey still kneeling and weeping. Then she would die for his sake. Thus her love and jealousy had lost her.

The next moment she had entered—the storm raging more fiercely than before.

Walking proudly and fearlessly through the night air, came the fool, sure that by this time his vengeance was complete—the vengeance for which he had waited an age of grief.

Forth from the hut came the bandit, dragging a heavy sack. There he lay, then—dead; there was the chinking of money over the still burden, and there the bravo had left the fool alone with the destroyer. “So then,” thought Rigoletto, “here was the great duke, lying dead at his, the poor fool’s feet.” Then he thought he should like to see the face of his enemy, before he cast him into the black waters.

Yet no, he would not like to see his face; so he began drawing away the sack, when—merciful powers!—he heard the voice of the duke singing gaily, as he moved away, saved, in the distance.

“But then whose body lay at his feet? Whose?”

With a might of horror, he tore open the mouth of the sack; and there, within it, lay—his daughter!

“My daughter! Heaven! my Gilda! Yet no, she is now on her way to Verona. Is this a dream? Oh, no! no dream. My daughter! oh, my daughter!”

In an agony of grief he ran to the door of the hut, and beat at it, when he heard a voice—her voice—calling to him.

“She lives—she lives! oh! she lives!”

He was down at her side again, tearing her from the shameful sack with his trembling hands.

“My father! oh, my father!”

“’Tis thou, and they have stricken thee.”

“They have stabbed me—here—here.”

And wearily she pressed her hands about her heart, as the wretched man drew back, saying to himself, that he—he himself had killed her.

She was silent for a moment, still wearily pressing her breast.

“Speak—speak to me! oh, daughter!”

“I am almost too weak to speak, dear father. Lay thy hand upon my head, and bless me. If I may always think of thee, I will. Near my mother, I will pray for thee—near my mother.”

What is this with which he is suddenly stricken; what conviction is growing on his mind as his eyes grow yet wilder, and he grasps his throat with his trembling hand?

“My child, do not leave me. Have pity on me, tarry yet a little longer—leave me not in the world alone—oh I—and I am thy father—bid thee stay!”

She does not answer. He bends over her, as the dread conviction forces itself upon him.

“Dead! Dead! Dead!”

He wraps his hands round his head, looks wildly to the lowering sky, and cries:—

“The curse—the undying curse!”

Then he speaks no more.

Mercy for him as—his breath grows thick—mercy for him as he clasps his helpless hands together prayerfully. Mercy—mercy!

His faults are not all his own. He hath but mocked the world as it hath mocked him! Who would not hate where he is scorned? Oh—many are forgiven who have sinned more deeply.

See the clasped hands—the bloodless lips. Mercy—mercy!

So at last it hath fallen on him—the grace of forgiveness.