Tales from the Operas

by Unknown

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.