I had to consent, and indeed I saw that there was really no deception to be practised. So the Grand Panjandrum and the Lady Superior and I sent for the carriage and drove back to the circus tent, which was dark now, except for the dim light of a few watchmen’s lanterns. I went to the dressing-room and put on some of Fifine’s riding-clothes—not those she wore in the presence of the audience, but a plain practice gown of black. Meanwhile the manager had made the men light up a little and bring out some horses. I mounted and rode a little, doing my very best, though I was extremely nervous for fear that I should not prove to be acceptable. I suppose I rode a good deal better than Bridget had done, for the manager, his wife, and all the men in the ring seemed greatly delighted. I ended by throwing some somersaults, and that set them almost wild. The manager engaged me on the spot, making me sign the contract in the dressing-room tent before I had changed my clothing. Then he hurried me back to the tavern, registered me as Mademoiselle Fifine, writing the name in a big hand all across the page, and ordered me to bed. “You mustn’t be nervous at your first performance,” he said; “so you must get plenty of sleep.” When it came time to go to the circus, I was surprised to find that a special carriage, drawn by two large, white horses with long, flowing tails, had been provided for me. I learned afterward that this was one of the Grand Panjandrum’s devices for advertising his “matchless equestrienne.” It gave the people the impression that Mademoiselle Fifine was a person of so much consequence that she must be treated like a queen, and it led to many wild, exaggerated stories of the royal salary the manager had to pay in order to secure so distinguished an “artiste.” It was popularly believed that “ten thousand a year wouldn’t touch her”; that she had her own carriage and coachman and footman and maid, and always the finest rooms in the hotel. My salary, in fact, was fifty dollars a month, and the “coachman” was one of the ring attendants. But I did have the best rooms in all the hotels. The Grand Panjandrum insisted upon that, and he did it rather noisily, too, complaining that the hotels really had no rooms fit for such a person to live in. All this was advertising, of course, but at any rate I was made as comfortable as could be. I succeeded very well indeed in the bareback riding, and at my suggestion the manager sent an agent to Campbell’s ranch and bought the five or six horses there that I had trained. I soon drilled them to perform little acts in the ring which seemed to please the public. For this the manager added ten dollars a month to my salary. He and his wife were always very good to me, but some of the actors in the circus seemed jealous of the attention shown me and of the applause I got. I was already miserable, because I hated the business and especially my own part of it.