As the trio walked up Rue de Richelieu to a little restaurant tucked behind Opéra-Comique, Lara was so exhausted that she felt like she was staggering. With its cozy red velvet banquettes and low chandeliers, the restaurant looked like it had remained frozen in time from the Belle Époque period. Any moment, Lara expected women to arrive in velvet dresses with their hair pinned up and men in waistcoats. Vintage opera costumes and photos of opera stars decorated the walls. With its atmosphere, Lara imagined the place was a delight in the winter.
The waitress walked by with a chalkboard displaying the lunch specials. Barrow ordered the carpaccio de Saint-Jacques followed by the côte de boeuf, and Gaston the snails and the turbot. Lara chose a “tiramisu” of tomatoes with Parmesan and chicken ravioli, which consisted of two large pasta sheets formed into one giant raviolo containing shredded chicken smothered in an onion-and-cream sauce topped with the floral taste of thyme. All three had wine—something Lara didn’t typically drink at lunch. Barrow chose a Bordeaux, Gaston a Sancerre, and Lara a Meursault, the rare, oaky wine produced by a commune in Côte de Beaune.
While they waited for the wine to arrive, Barrow skimmed the copy of Lara’s journal translation. Pushing the paper aside, Barrow took off his glasses and rubbed his face.
“So, what do you think?” She sensed that he couldn’t wait for her and Gaston to leave so he could devour the journal and her notes. He kept coming back to it, pulling it over to refer to it and then pushing it away toward the salt and pepper shakers.
“I am speechless, Ms. Barnes,” said Barrow. “You don’t know how long I have searched for answers on these missing paintings. I believe it is not an exaggeration to say that I am the foremost scholar on Giroux’s work.”
“Modest,” said Gaston, chuckling as he tore off a piece of bread and pointed it at Barrow. “But true.”
“In my book, I was forced to write that while the paintings might exist, they could also be hearsay; stories people told. This could be the final, missing chapter of Giroux’s life and work. His life—and my scholarship, frankly—is not complete without The Ladies of the Secret Circus. Jacques Mourier, the writer at Le Figaro, was the only journalist to attempt to investigate the existence of Le Cirque Secret. He received a ticket to one performance and wrote the only existing article about the circus for the paper.”
Lara recalled the article in Cecile’s journal. Sylvie had read the article to her while they were at the market at Rue Mouffetard. Taking the notes from Barrow’s side of the table, she shuffled them to find the entry. “Here.” She pushed the notes at him. “They reference his article in the journal.”
He read the pages, rubbing his neck in disbelief. “Poor Mourier drove himself crazy trying to get another ticket just so he could see it again. The performance had left him with more questions. Who ran it? How did it work? The police didn’t know. The city of Paris didn’t know. Mourier said that he saw the ladies of the circus out in Montparnasse frequently, but they would never discuss the circus with him or anyone else. And then, of course, there were the disappearances.”
“Disappearances?” Lara’s throat caught and she drank some water. At the gala, Louie Favre had mentioned the disappearances. Peter Beaumont and then Todd had gone missing. Was there a connection?
“Each time the circus showed up somewhere, dozens of men went missing. Mourier thought that is why it kept moving, avoiding authorities. He even considered that a serial killer was working at the circus—either that or a ritual killing—but without proof of the circus, they couldn’t connect the disappearances to it. In the end, Mourier might have been onto something, because the disappearances stopped when the circus did.” Barrow lifted his glass and looked out at the street. “I have to tell you. Part of me is apprehensive about getting my hopes up again. The pursuit of this circus can drive you mad.”
The wine arrived quickly, followed by their entrées.
“Do you remember what Zelda Fitzgerald said about the Secret Circus?” Gaston sipped his wine. “That after the performance she left through the mouth of the Devil. She turned around to take one last look and there was nothing but the cold night air.” He raised his eyebrow. “I read that somewhere?”
“My book, you bastard,” laughed Barrow. “You read it in my book. Patrons entered through a giant Devil’s mouth—it was all high theater. There were rumored to be animals turned into humans and vice versa, spell casting, devils. But you have to remember, magic and the occult shows were all the rage in the 1920s. Harry Houdini would die right around that time, having spent his last years debunking other popular occultists, from spirit painters to mediums.”
“But you have to admit, my friend,” said Gaston. “It all sounds crazy.”
“Look, I’m not saying that it couldn’t have been a tall tale,” admitted Barrow. “Liquor flowed freely then. The first war had left a city full of old people and women. So many young men had been killed. Paris had changed. Montparnasse was near the Sorbonne, so rent was cheap there, and the run-down first-floor apartments were easy for sculptors to get their art in and out, but Picasso was the first real artist to leave Montmartre and come to a studio on Boulevard Raspail. Then the Americans flocked here… jazz… writers and artists and even more alcohol. Prohibition was alive and well in America, but not here, and it was relatively cheap to live in Paris. The elements that created the Second World War were a slow drumbeat in the background. A Devil’s Circus? Yes, I could see how it could be a lovely romantic notion for a city
