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.