Now it is rapidly becoming time for the elopement, and Josephine pretends to accept Sir Joseph's suit at last, in order to get rid of him at half-past ten. He and Josephine go below while Dick Deadeye intimates to the Captain that he wants a word with him aside.
Then Dick Deadeye gives the Captain his information, thus:
[Listen]
Kind Captain, I've important information,
Sing hey, the gallant Captain that you are!
About a certain intimate relation,
Sing hey, the merry maiden and the tar!
Kind Captain, your young lady is a-sighing,
Sing, hey, the gallant Captain that you are!
This very night with Rackstraw to be flying,
Sing, hey, the merry maiden and the tar!
This information certainly comes in the nick of time, so the Captain hastily throws an old cloak over him and squats down behind the deck furniture to await the coming of the elopers.
Presently they come up, Josephine, followed by Little Buttercup, and all the crew on "tip-toe stealing." Suddenly amid the silence, the Captain stamps.
"Goodness me!" all cry. "What was that?"
"Silent be," says Dick. "It was the cat," and thus reassured they start for the boat which is to take the lovers ashore. At this crisis the Captain throws off the cloak and creates a sensation. He is so mad he swears just as Sir Joseph puts in an appearance.
"Damme!" cries the Captain.
"What was that dreadful language I heard you use?" Sir Joseph demands, highly scandalized.
"He said 'damme,'" the crew assure him. Sir Joseph is completely overcome. To excuse himself the Captain is obliged to reveal the cause of his anger.
"My daughter was about to elope with a common sailor, your Greatness," he says, and at this moment Josephine rushes into the arms of Ralph. The Admiral is again overcome with the impropriety of the situation.
"My amazement and my surprise, you may learn from the expression of my eyes," the Admiral says. "Has this sailor dared to lift his eyes to the Captain's daughter? Incredible. Put him in chains, my boys," he says to the rest of the crew, "and Captain – have you such a thing as a dungeon on board?"
"Certainly," the Captain says. "Hanging on the nail to the right of the mess-room door – just as you go in."
"Good! put him in the ship's dungeon at once – just as you go in – and see that no telephone communicates with his cell," whereupon Ralph is lugged off.
"When the secret I have to tell is known," says Little Buttercup, "his dungeon cell will be thrown wide."
"Then speak, in Heaven's name; or I certainly shall throw myself into the bilge water," Josephine says desperately.
"Don't do that: it smells so dreadfully," Buttercup entreats; "and to prevent accidents I will tell what I know:"
A many years ago,
When I was young and charming,
As some of you may know,
I practised baby farming.
Two tender babes I nursed,
One was of low condition,
The other upper crust —
A regular patrician.
Oh, bitter is my cup,
However could I do it?
I mixed those children up,
And not a creature knew it.
In time each little waif,
Forsook his foster-mother;
The well-born babe was Ralph —
Your Captain was the other!
So, the murder is out! Nobody outside of comic opera can quite see how this fact changes the status of the Captain and Ralph (the Captain not having been a captain when in the cradle) but it is quite enough to set everybody by the ears. Josephine screams:
"Oh, bliss, oh, rapture!" And the Admiral promptly says:
"Take her, sir, and mind you treat her kindly," and immediately, having fixed the ship's affairs so creditably, falls to bemoaning his sad and lonesome lot.
He declares that he "cannot live alone," and his cousin Hebe assures him she will never give up the ship; or rather that she never will desert him, unless of course she should discover that he, too, was changed in the cradle. This comforts everybody but the changed Captain. Ralph has, in the twinkling of an eye, become the Captain of the good ship Pinafore, while the Captain has become Ralph, and Ralph has taken the Captain's daughter. But while he is looking very downcast, Buttercup reminds him that she is there, and after regarding her tenderly for a moment, he decides that he has always loved his foster mother like a wife, and he says so:
I shall marry with a wife,
In my humble rank of life,
And you, my own, are she.
The crew is delighted. Everybody is happy. But the Captain adds, rashly:
I must wander to and fro,
But wherever I may go
I shall never be untrue to thee!
Whereupon the crew, which is very punctilious where the truth is concerned, cries:
"What, never?"
"No, never!" the Captain declares.
"What – never?" they persist.
"Well, hardly ever," the Captain says, qualifying the statement satisfactorily to his former crew. And now that all the facts and amenities of life have been duly recognized, the crew and Sir Joseph, Ralph and the former Captain, Josephine and Buttercup, all unite in singing frantically that they are an Englishman, for they themselves have said it, and it's greatly to their credit; and while you are laughing yourself to death at a great many ridiculous things which have taken place, the curtain comes down with a rush, and you wish they would do it again.
VERDI
GIUSEPPE VERDI, born October 9, 1813, was the composer of twenty-six operas. His musical history may be divided into three periods, and in the last he approached Wagner in greatness, and frequently surpassed him in beauty of idea.
Wagner made both the libretti and the music of his operas, while Verdi took his opera stories from other authors. Both of these great men were born in the same year.
Of Verdi's early operas, "Ernani" was probably the best; then he entered upon the second period of his achievement as a composer, and the first work that marked the transition was "Rigoletto." The story was adapted from a drama of Hugo's, "Le Roi S'Amuse," and as the profligate character of its principal seemed too baldly to exploit the behaviour of Francis I, its production was suppressed. Then Verdi adjusted the matter by turning the character into the Duke of Mantua, and everybody was happy.
The story of the famous song "La Donna è Mobile," is as picturesque as Verdi himself. While the rehearsals of the opera were going on, Mirate, who sang the Duke, continued to complain that he hadn't the MS. of one of his songs. Verdi kept putting him off, till the evening before the orchestral rehearsal, when he brought forth the lines; but at the same time he demanded a promise that Mirate – nor indeed any of the singers – should not hum or whistle the air till it should be heard at the first performance. This signified Verdi's belief that the song would instantly become a universal favourite. The faith was justified. The whole country went "La Donna" mad.
"Il Trovatore" came next in this second period of the great composer's fame, and we read that "Nearly half a century has sped since Verdi's twelfth opera was first sung of a certain winter evening in Rome." Out of the chaff of Italian opera comes this wheat, satisfying to the generation of to-day, as it was to that first audience in Rome. We do not even know any longer why we love it, because in most ways it violates new and better rules of musical art, but we love it. Helen Keyes has written that "the libretto of 'Il Trovatore' is based on a Spanish drama written in superb verse by a contemporary of Verdi's, Antonio Garcia Gutierrez," and she relates a romantic story in connection with the Spanish play; the author was but seventeen years old when he wrote it and had been called to military duty, which was dreaded by one of his temperament. But his drama being staged at that moment, the authorities permitted him to furnish a substitute on the ground that such genius could best serve its country by remaining at home to contribute to its country's art.
At the time the opera was produced in Rome, the Tiber had overflowed its banks and had flooded all the streets near the theatre; nevertheless people were content to stand knee-deep in water at the box office, waiting their turn for tickets.
So great had Verdi become in a night, by this presentation, that his rivals formed a cabal which prevented the production of "Il Trovatore" in Naples for a time, but in the end the opera and Verdi prevailed.
Now came "Traviata," – third in that time of change in a great master's art, and this marked the limits of the second period. "Aïda" followed. It is well said that "the importance of Verdi's 'Aïda' as a work of musical art can hardly be overestimated!" This opera was written at the entreaty of the Khedive Ismail Pacha. He wished to open the opera house at Cairo with a great opera that had Egypt for its dramatic theme. Upon the Khedive's application Verdi named a price which he believed would not be accepted, as he felt no enthusiasm about the work. But his terms were promptly approved and Mariette Bey, a great Egyptologist, was commissioned to find the materials for a proper story. Verdi, in the meantime, did become enthusiastic over the project and went to work. Egyptian history held some incident upon which the story of "Aïda" was finally built. First, it was given to Camille du Locle, who put the story into French prose, and in this he was constantly advised by Verdi, at whose home the work was done. After that, the French prose was translated into Italian verse by Ghislanzoni, and when all was completed, the Italian verse was once more translated back into French for the French stage.
Then the Khedive decided he would like Verdi to conduct the first performance, and he began to negotiate for that. Verdi asked twenty thousand dollars for writing the opera, and thirty thousand in case he went to Egypt. This was agreed, but when the time came to go, Verdi backed out; he was overcome with fear of seasickness and wouldn't go at any price. Then the scenery was painted in Paris, and when all was ready – lo! the scenery was a prisoner because the war had broken out in France! Everything had to wait a year, and during that time Verdi wrote and rewrote, making his opera one of the most beautiful in the world. Finally "Aïda" was produced, and the story of that night as told by the Italian critic Filippi is not out of place here, since the night is historic in opera "first nights:"
"The Arabians, even the rich, do not love our shows; they prefer the mewings of their tunes, the monotonous beatings of their drums, to all the melodies of the past, present, and future. It is a true miracle to see a turban in a theatre of Cairo. Sunday evening the opera house was crowded before the curtain rose. Many of the boxes were filled with women, who neither chatted nor rustled their robes. There was beauty and there was intelligence especially among the Greeks and the strangers of rank who abound in Cairo. For truth's sake I must add that, by the side of the most beautiful and richly dressed, were Coptic and Jewish faces, with strange head-dresses, impossible costumes, a howling of colours, – no one could deliberately have invented worse. The women of the harem could not be seen. They were in the first three boxes on the right, in the second gallery. Thick white muslin hid their faces from prying glances."
This gives a striking picture of that extraordinary "first night."
Verdi was born at a time of turmoil and political troubles, and his mother was one of the many women of the inhabitants of Roncole (where he was born) who took refuge in the church when soldiery invaded the village. There, near the Virgin, many of the women had thought themselves safe, but the men burst in, and a general massacre took place. Verdi's mother fled with her little son to the belfry and this alone saved to the world a wonderful genius.
When Verdi was ten years old he was apprenticed to a grocer in Busseto, but he was a musical grocer, and the musical atmosphere, which was life to Verdi, surrounded him. He had a passion for leaving in the midst of his grocery business to sit at the spinet and hunt out new harmonious combinations: and when one of his new-made chords was lost he would fly into a terrible rage, although as a general rule he was a peaceable and kindly little chap. On one such occasion he became so enraged that he took a hammer to the instrument – an event coincident with a thrashing his father gave him.
There is no end of incident connected with this gentle and kindly soul, who, unlike so many of his fellow geniuses, reflected in his life the beauty of his art.
RIGOLETTO
CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA, WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST AS PRESENTED AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCE
The story belongs to the sixteenth century, in the city of Mantua and its environs.
Composer: Giuseppe Verdi. Author: Francesco Maria Piave.
First sung in Venice, Gran Teatro la Fenice. March 11, 1851.
ACT I
Dukes and duchesses, pages and courtiers, dancing and laughter: these things all happening to music and glowing lights, in the city of Mantua four hundred years ago! – that is "Rigoletto."
There lived, long ago, in Mantua, the Duke and his suite, and the only member of his household who dared do as he pleased was the Duke of Mantua's jester, Rigoletto. The more deformed a jester happened to be, the more he was valued in his profession, and Rigoletto was a very ugly little man, and as vindictive and wicked as he was ill-favoured in appearance. The only thing he truly loved was his daughter, Gilda. As for the Duke of Mantua, he loved for the time being almost any pretty woman who came his way.
On the night of a great ball at the Duke's palace he was thinking of his latest love, Gilda, the jester's daughter. The Duke usually confided his affairs to his servant Borsa, and the ball had no sooner begun than he began to speak with Borsa of his newest escapade. He declared that he had followed Gilda to the chapel where she went each day, and that he had made up his mind to speak with her the next time he saw her.
"Where does this pretty girl live, your Highness?"
"In an obscure and distant street where I have followed her each day. At night a queer-looking fellow is admitted, thus I am sure she has a lover. By the way, whom do you think that fellow to be?" the Duke asked with a laugh.
"Pray tell me."
"None other than Rigoletto!" the Duke cried, laughing more boisterously. "What do you think of that – the little hunchback!"
"And does he know that you have followed this sweetheart of his?"
"Not he. But look at all of these beautiful women," he exclaimed with delight as the company began to assemble from another room. "Alas, a man hardly knows whom to love among so many beauties," he sighed heavily. "But after all, I think it must be the Countess Ceprano! do you see her? Most beautiful!"
"Just the same I advise you not to let the Count Ceprano hear you!" Borsa advised.
Ah, in my heart, all are equally cherished,
Every thought of exclusion within me I smother,
None is dearer to me than another,
In their turn, I for each one would die,
the Duke sang gaily, giving his friend and servant the wink.
Now, Rigoletto was in the habit of assisting the Duke in all his wrongdoing, and on this night the Duke confided to him his new enchantment – not Gilda, but the Countess Ceprano.
"The Countess has a jealous husband, Rigoletto; pray what do you advise?"
"Why, that you carry her off, to be sure; or else get rid of her husband the Count; maybe that would be the easiest way."
The Duke was wild enough to undertake almost anything, and so with the help of Rigoletto he was ready to undertake that. Hence, he made desperate love to the Countess all the evening, while the Count became more and more angry, and followed the pair continually about.
Even the courtiers were a good deal disgusted with the Duke's conduct, and they especially hated Rigoletto, who they thought was the real author of most of the Duke's misconduct.
"I don't know what we are coming to," Marullo exclaimed.
Yes, and 'tis here but as elsewhere!
'Tis gambling and feasting, duelling and dancing;
And love-making always, wherever he goes.
To-day he's for pastime, besieging the countess,
While we watch the husband and laugh at his woes!
This condition of things exactly suited the malevolent dwarf, however.
After the Count had followed the Duke and Countess about the palace half the night, the Duke came into the room in a rage.
"What am I to do with this Count? I'd like to fight him and kill him. He torments me to death. If you don't think out a way to rid me of him while I am making love to the Countess, I'll get some other fellow to make life gay for me, Rigoletto," he cried to the dwarf.
"Well, have I not told you – run off with her."
"Oh, yes, that's easy enough to say."
"It's easy enough to do. Try it to-night!"
"But what about her husband?"
"Oh, I don't know – let him be arrested."
"No, no, that won't do; he's of noble birth. You are going too far."
"All right! If he is too good to be arrested, then exile him," the dwarf obligingly arranges, showing thereby his notion of the fitness of things.
"No! that would hardly do, either," the Duke exclaimed impatiently.
"Well, cut off his head, then." Rigoletto thought that should be an ending dignified enough for any one. Meantime Ceprano overheard that pleasing conversation.
"They are black-hearted villains," he muttered aside.
"Cut off that head so unbending," the Duke exclaimed, looking at Ceprano, who was really a noble-appearing aristocrat.
"Aye – we have discovered its use. Cut it off; that will make it pliant," the charming dwarf said, facetiously; and that being a bit too much for any noble to put up with, the Count drew his sword.
"Enough! you ribald hunchback," he cried; at which the Duke became uneasy.
"Yes, come here, you jesting fool!" he called to Rigoletto, trying to turn the matter off. "We've had enough of your jests. We are tired of you. I advise you not to impose too much on our good humour, because some of this maliciousness may come back at you."
But the Count was not so easily to be pacified. He turned to the other nobles and asked them to help him revenge himself; but the Duke of Mantua was very powerful, and few were willing to displease him, however much they disapproved of his conduct.
"What can we do?" several of them murmured, and meanwhile the dwarf was trying aside to secure help in carrying off the Countess for the Duke. That was really too audacious, and all of the nobles finally sided with the Count, privately agreeing to help him ruin the dwarf, since they dared not directly oppose the Duke.
While the excitement of this general quarrel was at its height, the dancers all poured in from the other room and began to sing gaily of life's pleasures, which were about all that made life worth living. In the very midst of this revelry some one without made a great noise and demanded instant admittance. The Duke recognized the voice of Monterone, a powerful noble, whom he had wronged and cried out angrily:
"He shall not come in." As a fact, Rigoletto had carried off Monterone's daughter for the Duke but a little time before.
"Make way there," the old Count insisted, more enraged than ever, and forcing his way past the attendants, he entered the room. He was an old and proud man and the nobles present were bound to give heed to him.
"Yes, Sir Duke, it is I. You know my voice! I would it were as loud as thunder!" he cried.
"Ah! I will deign to give you audience," Rigoletto spoke up, mimicking the Duke's voice in a manner insulting to Monterone.
He continued to speak insultingly to the old man, using the Duke's manner and voice, till the Count cried out against the shameful action.
"Is this thy justice? Thou darest deride me? Then no place shall hide thee from my curse. I will pursue thee as long as I live, day and night. I will recall to you how you have taken my daughter away from me, and have disgraced us. You may cut off my head, but still I'll appear to thee and fill thee with fear. And thou, thou viper," he cried to Rigoletto, "be thou accursed!"
"Don't curse me," the dwarf exclaimed, turning pale. He was superstitious, and the fearful words of the wronged father sounded ominous. The scene became terrifying to the whole company and they cried out.
"Away with him," the Duke demanded, angrily. "Am I to have the gaiety of my guests spoiled because of this old dotard? Take him to prison." The attendants rushed in and seized Monterone, while he turned again upon the dwarf and cursed him roundly. Not only did the dwarf shrink back, the whole company became affrighted, while the old man was silenced at last by the guards, and Rigoletto hurried, panic-stricken, from the palace.
Scene II
As Rigoletto hastened away from the palace with the curses ringing in his ears he could not rid himself of the terror they inspired; probably because he was so bad a man and knew that he deserved them. He was in a street very near to his home, when he was stopped by a forbidding-looking fellow.
"It was a father's curse he laid upon me," Rigoletto was muttering, thinking of his own daughter, the only thing in the world that he loved.
"Ho, there," said the fellow in the road, calling softly.
"Oh, don't stop me," Rigoletto answered with impatience. "I have nothing worth getting." He lived in a time of bandits and highwaymen, and, since he had nothing to be robbed of, was not much frightened. He was far more afraid of the Count's curse.
"No matter, good sir; that is not exactly what I stopped you for. You look to me like a man who might have enemies; or who might wish to employ me."
"What for, pray?"
Sparafucile laughed shortly. "Well, you are not a very benevolent-looking chap, and I'd murder my brother for money," he whispered, grinning at the crooked, odious-looking Rigoletto.
Rigoletto eyed him. The villain had spoken almost as if he knew the dwarf's fear.
"I believe you," he muttered, looking steadily at the cut-throat. "You look it, every inch. What do you charge to kill a noble?"
"More than I charge for a churl, by double."
"And how do you want your money?"
"Half before I do the deed, and the other half when he is dead."
"You're a demon," Rigoletto murmured; and certainly he himself was bad enough to be able to judge of a rogue when he saw one. "Aren't you afraid of being discovered?"
"No, when it is dangerous to kill in the city, I do it in my own house. There in the gloom of night, far away from help, it is easy enough. No one ever finds it out."
"You are the wickedest man I know – not excepting myself," said Rigoletto, contemplating the wretch with curiosity. "Tell me how you lure people to your home?"
"Easy enough. I have a handsome sister there. Nobody ever thinks of resisting her. She gets them to come; I do the rest."
"I follow you."
"Then not a sound is heard. The knife is a silent fellow. Now what do you think? – that I can serve you?"
"No. I don't like the notion." Rigoletto was not half as daring of wicked deeds as he had been an hour before; the curse was still ringing in his ears.
"You have enemies, I judge," Sparafucile urged, shrewdly. "You'll regret not accepting my services."
"Nay. Be off. No, stay a moment! If I ever should need thee, where could I address thee?"
"You won't have to address me; you'll find me here each night."
"Well, be off, be off!" As a fact Rigoletto didn't much care to be seen with one of his own kind. But he looked after the coupe-jarret uneasily. "After all, we are equals, that fellow and I. He stabs in the dark – and so do I. I with my malicious tongue, he with his knife. Bah! I am all undone. I hear that old man's curse yet. How I hate them, all those nobles who hire me to laugh for them and to make them laugh! I haven't even a right to know sadness. It is my business in life, because I am born crooked, to make sport for these rats of fellows who are no better than I am. I am hired to bear the burden of their crimes. I wish they all had but one neck; I'd strangle them with one hand." Overwhelmed with the exciting scenes of the night, he turned toward the gate in his garden wall. As he opened it, Gilda ran out gaily to meet him. To her he was only the loving and tender father. She waited for his coming all day, and had no pleasure till she saw him.
"Oh, in this abode, my nature changes," the crooked little man murmured as he folded his daughter in his arms.
"Near thee, my daughter, I find all the joy on earth that is left me," he said, trying to control his emotion.
"You love me, father?"
"Aye! – thou art my only comfort."
"Father, there is often something mysterious in thy actions. You have never told me of my mother. Who was my mother, dear father?"
[Listen]
Ah why recall in misery,
What tempests dread have moved me?
An angel once companion'd me,
An angel in pity lov'd me
he sang.
"Hideous, an outcast, penniless, she blessed my lonely years. Ah! I lost her, I lost her. Death wafted her soul to heaven! – But thou art left me," he said tenderly, beginning to weep.
"There, father, say no more. My questions have made thee sad. I shall always be with thee to make thee happy. But, father, I do not know that you are what you tell me. What is your real name? Is it Rigoletto?"
"No matter, child, do not question. I am feared and hated by my enemies. Let that suffice."
"But ever since we came to this place three months ago, you have forbidden me to go abroad. Let me go into the city, father, and see the sights."
"Never! You must not ask it." He was frightened at the very thought. If men like the Duke, his master, should see such a beautiful girl as Gilda, they would surely rob him of her. At that moment the nurse, Giovanna, came from the house and Rigoletto asked her if the garden gate was ever left open while he was away. The woman told him falsely that the gate was always closed.
"Ah, Giovanna, I pray you watch over my daughter when I am away," he cried, and turned suddenly toward the gate upon hearing a noise. "Some one is without there, now!" he cried, running in the direction of the sound. He threw the gate wide, but saw no one, because the Duke – who it was – had stepped aside into the shadow, and then, while Rigoletto was without, looking up the road, he slipped within and hid behind a tree, throwing a purse to Giovanna to bribe her to silence. Giovanna snatched it and hid it in the folds of her gown, showing plainly that she was not to be trusted, as Rigoletto trusted her, with his precious daughter. There was the man whom Rigoletto had most cause to fear, who ran off with every pretty girl he saw, and he had now found the prettiest of them all in the dwarf's daughter.
"Have you noticed any one following Gilda?" the dwarf asked, returning to the garden and fastening the gate behind him. "If harm should come to my daughter it would surely kill me," he sobbed, taking Gilda in his arms. At that the Duke, listening behind the tree, was amazed. So! Gilda was no sweetheart of his jester; but was his daughter instead!
"Now," said Rigoletto, "I must be off, but I caution you once more; let no one in."
"What, not even the great Duke if he should come to inquire for you?"
"The Duke least of all," the dwarf answered in a new panic. And kissing Gilda he went out again.
No sooner had he gone than Gilda turned tearfully to her nurse.
"Giovanna, my heart feels guilty."
"What hast thou done?" the nurse asked, indifferently, remembering the purse of the Duke which she carried in her bosom.
"Ne'er told my father of the youth whom I have learned to love and who has followed me."
"Why should he know it? Would he not prevent it? If you wish that – "
"Nay, nay," Gilda replied, fearfully; and in her loneliness and distress she confided to Giovanna how much she loved the Duke. Mantua, behind the tree, heard all, and, motioning Giovanna to go away, he came toward Gilda. Giovanna went at once into the house, but Gilda cried to her to come back, as the sudden appearance of the Duke frightened her, after the scene she had just had with her father.
Then while the Duke was giving her a false name, and trying to reassure her, they heard voices outside the garden wall. The Duke recognized the voice of Borsa and Ceprano. They seemed to be searching for some house, and again, quite terror-stricken, Gilda started to rush within.
Giovanna met her. "I am afraid it is your father returned. The young gentleman must hasten away," she whispered under her breath, and immediately the Duke went out by another way, through the house. Then Gilda watched off, down the road, and while she was watching, Borsa, Ceprano, and other dare-devils of the Duke's court stole into the garden. Ceprano, who had heard that Gilda was some one beloved by Rigoletto, although it was not known that she was his daughter, meant to carry Gilda off, since he owed Rigoletto a grudge. Having seen the Duke disappear, Gilda had gone within again, and as the kidnappers were about to enter, they heard Rigoletto coming.
It was then their opportunity to plan a great and tragic joke upon the wretched dwarf.
"Listen to this!" Borsa whispered. "Let us tell him we are here to carry off the Countess Ceprano, who has fled here for safety from us. Then when we have blind-folded him, we will make him help to carry off his own sweetheart." Just as that infamous plan was formed, in came Rigoletto. He ran against one of the men in the dark.
"What's this?" he cried.
"H'st! Be silent!"
"Who spoke?" he unconsciously lowered his voice.
"Marullo, you idiot."
"The darkness blinds me, and I cannot see you."
"H'st, Rigoletto! We're for an adventure. We are going to carry off the Countess Ceprano: she has fled here from us. We had the Duke's key to get into her place." He holds out the key which the dwarf felt in the darkness and found the Duke's crest upon it.
"Her palace is on the other side – "
"She fled here, we tell thee. We are stealing her for the Duke. Put on this mask, hurry!" Marullo tied on a mask and put the jester at the foot of a ladder which they had run up against the terrace.
"Now hold the ladder till one of us gets over and unfastens the door." Rigoletto, somewhat dazed, did mechanically what he was told, and the men entered the house.