“All of the paintings are missing?” She put the biography back in the box where she’d found it.
“You haven’t told her?” Barrow looked at Gaston, shocked.
Gaston patted his friend on the back. “You, my friend, are the expert on Giroux and the occult. I thought you could do it greater justice.”
“I’ll start at the beginning,” said Barrow, his voice animated. “Le Cirque Secret is a longtime legend in Paris. From oral history, we think it existed for two years—1924 through 1926—but no physical evidence of the circus’s existence remains.”
Lara recalled the elaborate posters, tickets, and memorabilia of Le Cirque Margot that still hung in the Kerrigan Falls Historical Society office. “Surely something exists.”
Barrow shook his head gravely. “It has been the material lacking in my research on Giroux. The lore was that guests would receive a special ticket by delivery for the night’s performance. People went to the location printed on the ticket, only to find that nothing was there—just an empty field or abandoned courtyard.” He paused dramatically. “Until there was something. The circus would appear out of nowhere. If you had a ticket in your possession, you saw it in front of you. Legend has it, however, that if you were standing next to someone without a ticket, they couldn’t see anything and thought you were mad.”
At the dinner table the other night, Louie Favre had told roughly the same story. From reading Cecile’s diary, she felt that the wicked tickets Cecile had described were the culprit. Elements of what Cecile had written matched this story.
Gaston shrugged. “Well, it was the Jazz Age, Teddy.”
“He means they were all drunk,” said Barrow, rolling his eyes. “This one here is a nonbeliever.”
“They were also trying to outdo each other, so it could have been some cheap carnival in Bois de Boulogne,” said Gaston. “You have to admit, it might have just been some stage magic.”
“You think they were exaggerating?” Barrow looked over at Gaston, offended.
“Things just don’t appear out of nowhere,” said Gaston.
From experience, Lara knew that they did. Suddenly a wave of exhaustion hit her. While Gaston had slept soundly on the airplane with an eye mask and earplugs, she had tried to read, then watched the movie, and then ate the morning croissant with a paper cup of coffee, never sleeping a wink due to the excitement of this adventure.
Barrow took off his glasses. “Normally, I agree with you, Gaston, but there were enough people who said they attended the circus. Something was there. They all described the same thing, yet there is no actual, physical proof of its existence. No promotional posters, tickets, or photos. There were no permits for it to be in the city. The thought was that the circus moved so as not to pick up notice from the police. No records whatsoever other than word of mouth and small snippets written in passing in biographies—and I have collected every one of them.”
“No photos, really?” Lara knew she had seen countless photos of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald in Paris. If this circus had been so famous, surely someone had snapped a picture of it.
Barrow pointed his glasses at Sylvie on the Steed. “When I was writing Giroux’s biography, many scholars told me the paintings had never existed at all. Your painting may be the greatest proof of the existence of Le Cirque Secret yet.”
But it wasn’t just the painting. Lara reached into her messenger bag and pulled out the envelope with the old journal. “I don’t think the painting is the only proof of its existence.”
Gaston looked puzzled. Lara hadn’t told him about the journal.
Barrow touched the envelope tentatively, sliding the book out.
“Here.” Lara handed him her written notes. “It’s what I’ve been able to translate, but some of the pages are in bad condition. It’s a journal. I think it may be my great-grandmother’s journal. It tells the story of a strange circus, similar to what you just described.” She pointed to the warped and faded paper. “It might be nothing.”
“Looks like water damage of some sort,” said Barrow. “I have some software that can enhance this.” He touched it tenderly. “Where did you get it?”
“My family owned a circus in America called Le Cirque Margot. After it closed, a lot of the people went to work for the Rivoli Circus in Montreal. The other night, I was at one of the Rivoli’s performances and someone handed this to me,” said Lara. That the “someone” had been a monkey named Mr. Tisdale was information that Lara decided to omit. “It appears to be from 1925. It matches the story that you just told me.”
“The Rivoli Circus out of Montreal?” Barrow’s eyes lit up.
“You’ve heard of it?” She leaned forward.
“I have,” said Barrow. “I know it well. I’ve attended their performances over the years.”
“Take it,” said Lara. “You might be able to confirm that it is from 1925. I have my copy of the notes. You might be able to translate a few of the things I couldn’t.” She opened up the diary and showed him a few notes on the pages.
“Why don’t we finish this discussion over lunch?” Gaston looked over at Lara and seemed to read her mind. She was starved. “Hopefully our hotel rooms will be ready after that.”
Barrow made a copy of Lara’s journal translation before sliding the original back in the envelope and
