She shook her head, and added,-- "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,-- "What do I care whether I am picked up to-morrow on the pavement of the Rue Plumet stabbed by my father, or am found within a year in the nets of St. Cloud, or on Swan's Island, among old rotting corks and drowned dogs?" She was compelled to break off, for she was attacked by a dry cough, and her breath came from her weak, narrow chest like the death-rattle. She continued,-- "I have only to cry out and people will come, patatras. You are six, but I am the whole world." Thénardier moved a step toward her. "Don't come near me," she cried. He stopped, and said gently,-- "Well, no; I will not approach you; but do not talk so loud. Do you wish to prevent us from working, my daughter? And yet we must earn a livelihood. Do you no longer feel any affection for your father?" "You bore me," said Éponine. "Still we must live; we must eat--" "Burst!" This said, she sat down on the coping of the railings and sang,-- "Mon bras si dodu, Ma jambe bien faite, Et le temps perdu." She had her elbow on her knee, and her chin in her hand, and balanced her foot with a careless air. Her ragged gown displayed her thin shoulder-blades, and the neighboring lamp lit up her profile and attitude. Nothing more resolute or more surprising could well be imagined. The six burglars, amazed and savage at being held in check by a girl, went under the shadow of the lamp and held council, with humiliated and furious shrugs of their shoulders. She, however, looked at them with a peaceful and stern air.