“It is we, you silly.” And for once, the Duke of Monmouth had said something that was demonstrably true. Countless sets of jewelled and gilded opera-glasses had been trained on them, making the owners look like so many goggle-eyed amphibians crowded together on a bank.
“Never before has the Duke’s woman been more gloriously attired than he, ” Eliza ventured.
“And never again, ” Monmouth snarled. “I only hope that your magnificence does not distract them from what we want them to see.”
They stood at the railing of their box as they talked, presenting themselves for inspection. For the proscenium where the actors cavorted was only the most obvious of the Opera House’s stages, and the story that they acted out was only one of several dramas all going on at once. For example, the Stadholder’s box, only a few yards away, was being ransacked by Blue Guards looking for French bombs. That had grown tedious, and so now the Duke of Monmouth and his latest mistress had the attention of most everyone. The gaze of so many major V.O.C. shareholders, through so many custom-ground lenses, made Eliza feel like an insect ‘neath a Natural Philosopher’s burning-glass. She was glad that this Turkish courtesan’s get-up included a veil, which hid everything but her eyes.
Even through the veil’s narrow aperture, some of the observers might’ve detected a few moments’ panic, or at least anxiety, in Eliza’s eyes, as the frisson drew out into a general murmur of confusion: opera-goers all nudging one another down below, pointing upwards with flicks of the eyeballs or discreet waftings of gloved and ringed fingers, getting their wigs entangled as they whispered speculations to each other.
It took a few moments for the crowd to even figure out who Eliza’s escort was. Monmouth’s attire was numblingly practical, as if he were going to jump on a war-horse immediately following the Opera and gallop through fen, forest, and brush until he encountered some foe who wanted slaying. Even his sword was a cavalry saber-not a rapier. To that point, at least, the message was clear enough. The question was, in what direction would Monmouth ride, and what sorts of heads, specifically, did he intend to be lopping off with that saber?
“I knew it-to expose your navel was a mistake!” the Duke hissed.
“On the contrary-’Tis the keyhole through which the entire riddle will be unlocked, ” Eliza returned, the t’s and k’s making her veil ripple gorgeously. But she was not as confident as she sounded, and so, at the risk of being obvious, she allowed her gaze to wander, in what she hoped would be an innocent-seeming way, around the crescent of opera-boxes until she found the one where the comte d’Avaux was seated along with (among other Amsterdammers who had recently gone on shopping sprees in Paris) Mr. Sluys the traitorous lead-hoarder.
D’Avaux removed a pair of golden opera-glasses from his eyes and stared Eliza in the face for a ten-count.
His eyes shifted to William’s box, where the Blue Guards were making an endless thrash.
He looked at Eliza again. Her veil hid her smile, but the invitation in her eyes was clear enough.
“It’s… not… working,” Monmouth grunted.
“It is working flawlessly, ” Eliza said. D’Avaux was on his feet, excusing himself from the crowd in that box: Sluys, and an Amsterdam Regent, and some sort of young French nobleman, who must have been of high rank, for d’Avaux gave him a deep bow.
A few moments later he was giving the same sort of bow to the Duke of Monmouth, and kissing Eliza’s hand.
“The next time you grace the Opera, mademoiselle, the Blue Guards will have to search your box, too-for you may be sure that every Lady in this building is shamed by your radiance. None of them will ever forgive you.” But as he was saying these words to Eliza, his gaze was traveling curiously up and down Monmouth, searching for clues.
The Duke was wearing several pins and badges that had to be viewed from close range in order to be properly interpreted: one bearing the simple red cross of a Crusader, and another with the arms of the Holy League-the alliance of Poland, Austria, and Venice that was nudging the wreckage of the Turkish Army back across Hungary.
“Your Grace,” d’Avaux said, “the way East is dangerous.”
“The way West is barred forever, to me anyway,” Monmouth replied, “and my presence in Holland is giving rise to all manner of ugly rumors.”
“There is always a place for you in France.”
“The only thing I’ve ever been any good for is fighting-” Monmouth began.
“Not the only thing… my lord,” Eliza said lasciviously. D’Avaux flinched and licked his lips. Monmouth flushed slightly and continued: “as my uncle*has brought peace to Christendom, I must seek glory in heathen lands.”
Something was happening in the corner of Eliza’s eye: William and Mary entering their box. Everyone rose and applauded. It was dry, sparse applause, and it didn’t last. The comte d’Avaux stepped forward and kissed the Duke of Monmouth on both cheeks. Many of the opera-goers did not see the gesture, but some did. Enough, anyway, to strike a new chord in the audience: a baritone commotion that was soon covered up by the opening strains of the overture.
The ladies and gentlemen of Amsterdam were settling into their seats, but their servants and lackeys still stood in the shadows under the boxes and loges, and some of them were now moving as their masters beckoned to them: stepping forward and cocking their heads to hear whispered confidences, or holding out their hands to accept scribbled notes.
The market was moving. Eliza had moved it with her turban and her navel, and d’Avaux had moved it by showing slightly greater than normal affection for the Duke of Monmouth. Together, these clues could only mean that Monmouth had given up his claim to the English throne and was bound for Constantinople.
The market was moving, and Eliza desperately wanted to be out on the Dam, moving with it-but her place was here for now. She saw d’Avaux return to his box and sit down. Actors had begun to sing down on the stage, but d’Avaux’s guests were leaning towards him to whisper and listen. The young French nobleman nodded his head, turned towards Monmouth, crossed himself, then opened his hand as if throwing a prayer to the Duke. Eliza half expected to see a dove fly out of his sleeve. Monmouth pretended to snatch it from the air, and kissed it.
But Mr. Sluys was not in a praying mood. He was thinking. Even in semi-darkness, through a miasma of candle and tobacco smoke, Eliza could read his face: Monmouth slaying Turks in Hungary means he won’t use Holland as a platform to invade England-so there won’t be a catastrophe in Anglo-Dutch relations-so the English Navy won’t be firing any broadsides at the Dutch merchant fleet-so V.O.C. stock will rise. Sluys held his right hand up slightly and caressed the air with two fingers. A servant was suddenly draped over his epaulet, memorizing something, counting on his fingers. He nodded sharply, like a pecking gull, and was gone.
Eliza reached up behind her head, untied her veil, and let it fall down onto her bosom. Then she enjoyed the opera.
A hundred feet away, Abraham de la Vega was hiding in the wings with a spyglass, made of lenses ground, to tolerances of a few thousandths of an inch, by his late second cousin, Baruch de Spinoza. Through those lenses, he saw the veil descend. He was nine years old. He moved through the backstage and out of the opera-house like the moon-shadow of a nightingale. Aaron de la Vega, his uncle, was waiting there astride a swift horse.
“HAS HE OFFEREDto make you a Duchess yet?” d’Avaux asked during the intermission.
“He said that he would have- had he not renounced his claim to the throne,” Eliza said.