“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.”