We moved around all night, finally settling at Le Dôme Café, known as the American café. Inside, I could make out the drawl of the Americans’ accents, which sound remarkably different from those of their clipped British cousins. Halfway through my second glass of champagne, Hadley Hemingway tugged on my arm.

“That is the modernist French painter Émile Giroux.” She pointed to a man in the corner. “He wants to meet you.” The painter looked embarrassed and blushed. Then he turned his head and was fully absorbed in a conversation with the painter Chagall.

“I’m not sure what a modernist painter is?” I had been to the Louvre several times, but painters were Esmé’s territory.

“He’s defying convention,” she said brightly.

When my expression didn’t change, she laughed. “The legs are long and out of proportion,” she said. “The colors are crude.”

“So he’s not very good?”

“Oh no.” She motioned for me to come closer. “He’s quite good. In fact, he’s the best here. It doesn’t take much to copy something—he sees it differently.”

“Painters are my sister’s weakness.” I nodded over to Esmé, who came to the café on her own. She and a painter had struck up a conversation near the bar. With each drink they’d begun leaning into each other like rotting trees.

While champagne flowed, couples circulated, coming in from the Ritz, the Dingo, and the Poirier. Everyone raved about the circus.

“So was it real?” Ernest Hemingway lit a cigarette, and I could barely make out the words. I leaned toward him, straining to hear.

“Yes, I was wondering—how did you make the building appear out of nowhere? Was it lighting?” This question came from the bearded Ezra Pound.

Sylvie and I exchanged glances. We couldn’t reveal what went on inside the circus. Ever. People wouldn’t understand. Moreover, Father forbade it.

Esmé answered from her perch on the bar, “We can’t say.” She smiled mischievously, knowing the comment only made her more alluring.

“Ahh, you aren’t being good sports.” Hemingway pointed his cigarette at her and ordered a beer. “Just one secret, come on.” A big man, he pounded the table a lot when he spoke, quite confident that people wanted to hear what he had to say.

“A French magician never reveals secrets.” I looked up to see Émile Giroux standing above me. “To the French, the circus is sacred. Your question is like asking you to unfurl your current story for us while it is being written or for me to unveil a painting before it is ready. You don’t ask too many questions about the process. It is bad luck. Am I right?”

He looked down and I saw that he had large green eyes, like the spangles on that night’s costume. Those eyes were in stark contrast to his dark-brown hair and hint of brown beard. I sipped my cherry brandy and nodded, grateful for his intervention. Hemingway quickly moved on to another topic, this time poetry. In my short time with them, I realized that just as they preferred to flit through bars, rarely did this group stay on a topic for long, moving from politics to art and finally bullfighting in anticipation of Hemingway’s upcoming trip to Pamplona. Ernest was talking about Spain when two women joined us who were introduced to us as the Steins.