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.