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. Standing there, he heard the crash of wood as they forced a window. (“Why, if they had the keys,” he thought, “did they want a ladder? why break into the house?”) Then for a few moments there was silence. Then a door opened, feet trampled near him, he heard even a smothered cry. Still he remained holding the ladder, still he saw nothing, for a handkerchief, unknown to himself, was hanging over his eyes. Then the steps sounded more distant, and at last were lost altogether. He waited a little, and was then startled as his wandering hand found the handkerchief hanging loosely over his eyes. He flung it from him, and oh! by the faint light, he saw, the whole terrible truth. The open garden gate,--a scarf that had fallen from her shoulders as she was carried away--the desolate home! He ran in--round the garden like a chased rat--up the steps, till he reached the house--into it--tore at the serving-woman--dragged her forth silently and without a word--then at last, finding his voice, he cried, “The curse--the curse,” and fell upon the ground, mercifully insensible. 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!”