"Beginning with my father."
Thénardier approached her.
"Not so close, my good man," she said.
He fell back, growling between his teeth, "Why, what is the matter?" and added, "chienne."
She burst into a terrible laugh.
"As you please, but you shall not enter; but I am not the daughter of a dog, since I am the whelp of a wolf. You are six, but what do I care for that? You are men and I am a woman. You won't frighten me, I can tell you, and you shall not enter this house because it does not please me. If you come nearer I bark; I told you there was a dog, and I am it. I do not care a farthing for you, so go your way, for you annoy me! Go where you like, but don't come here, for I oppose it. Come on, then, you with your stabs and I with my feet."
She advanced a step toward the bandits and said, with the same frightful laugh,—
"Confound it! I'm not frightened. This summer I shall be hungry, and this winter I shall be cold. What asses these men must be to think they can frighten a girl! Afraid of what? You have got dolls of mistresses who crawl under the bed when you talk big, but I am afraid of nothing!"
She fixed her eye on Thénardier, and said,—"Not even of you, father."
Then she continued, as she turned her spectral, bloodshot eyeballs on each of the bandits in turn,—