“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 such as this one had become.”

“You’ve got to admit, Teddy,” said Gaston. “It could have just been a surrealist performance circus. They used mirrors or mesmerized them all. The joke could have been on the audience. I mean, I don’t know how they pulled it off, but you have to admit it is possible. Even the journal could be a fictional account.” He pointed toward the notes.

Barrow shook his head violently. “I’ve considered that. Mourier didn’t believe it was performance art, like so many of the artists did at the time. In fact, he was the one who coined it the Devil’s Circus in his article.” Barrow pointed a fork at Gaston. “When Giroux died mysteriously after completing the final painting of the circus, Mourier was convinced that it had been his association with it—and the ladies—that killed him.”

Gaston grinned at Barrow, conceding. “It’s a real fucking Giroux, isn’t it? You finally found one of the missing Giroux paintings, my friend!”