“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.”