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.”