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.