“Let’s have some fun,” she said to Glass-Eye.
By this, Lily meant laughing at those “tiny Frenchies”; and, if they ventured to accost her, crushing them with a “Vous hettes oun cochon!” Although, among the people she mixed with, agents, artistes, stage-hands, everybody spoke English, Lily had not come to Paris without learning a few words, “Oui ... Non ... Vous hettes oun cochon!” and so on, which were indispensable, she thought, to a girl who wanted to make herself respected on the continent, a girl alone, especially. And she loved to snub those damned parley-voos who dared to accost ladies. It seemed to lighten those days of visits to the agents, the very prospect of which gave her a headache in advance, because one had to think of everything, lithos, photographs, programs; and, if the agent wasn’t in, ruin one’s self in correspondence; and puff one’s self in every way, rub it into them that one was the cleverest person on earth....
“If you’re too modest,” said Lily, “they’ll take you at your word!”
And the pay would drop, in consequence.
“Never tell your salary!” was another of Lily’s favorite maxims.
She gave out that she made heaps, that a little star like her, the Marie Loyd of the bike, was only to be obtained for untold gold. But, at the agent’s, she had to cut her prices: there was no hiding anything from them; it was like going to the doctor.
“And, when you’re in work, everybody wants you; and, when you’re out of work, they have nothing for you: it’s help yourself as best you may!” she said.
She had to help herself now; and it was delicate business dealing with people who have only one idea in their heads, to swindle you, in order to curry favor with the managers by getting them cheap turns. They would have skinned you alive:
“Two pounds a week. Do you accept?”
“Go to Halifax!” Lily would reply in such cases, looking them straight in the face. It took courage to do that: the agent might grow bigger, become an enemy. She didn’t care! She wasn’t going to lower her price for anybody! And the commission she had to pay them was a torment to Lily; calculating the percentage made her head split—not to speak of the complicated nature of the contracts, worse than insurance policies. The poor artiste was bound down on every side, at the mercy of the manager; everything was foreseen, down to the prohibition of black tights, which concealed one’s poverty. And it was bad enough in England; but in the Dago countries, on the continent, it was worse.