Our readers have possibly preserved some recollection of this Thénardier woman, ever since her first appearance⁠—tall, blond, red, fat, angular, square, enormous, and agile; she belonged, as we have said, to the race of those colossal wild women, who contort themselves at fairs with paving-stones hanging from their hair. She did everything about the house⁠—made the beds, did the washing, the cooking, and everything else. Cosette was her only servant; a mouse in the service of an elephant. Everything trembled at the sound of her voice⁠—window panes, furniture, and people. Her big face, dotted with red blotches, presented the appearance of a skimmer. She had a beard. She was an ideal market-porter dressed in woman’s clothes. She swore splendidly; she boasted of being able to crack a nut with one blow of her fist. Except for the romances which she had read, and which made the affected lady peep through the ogress at times, in a very queer way, the idea would never have occurred to anyone to say of her, “That is a woman.” This Thénardier female was like the product of a wench engrafted on a fishwife. When one heard her speak, one said, “That is a gendarme;” when one saw her drink, one said, “That is a carter;” when one saw her handle Cosette, one said, “That is the hangman.” One of her teeth projected when her face was in repose.