She advanced a pace nearer the ruffians, she was terrible, she burst out laughing:⁠—

“Pardine! I’m not afraid. I shall be hungry this summer, and I shall be cold this winter. Aren’t they ridiculous, these ninnies of men, to think they can scare a girl! What! Scare? Oh, yes, much! Because you have finical poppets of mistresses who hide under the bed when you put on a big voice, forsooth! I ain’t afraid of anything, that I ain’t!”

She fastened her intent gaze upon Thénardier and said:⁠—

“Not even of you, father!”

Then she continued, as she cast her bloodshot, spectre-like eyes upon the ruffians in turn:⁠—

“What do I care if I’m picked up tomorrow morning on the pavement of the Rue Plumet, killed by the blows of my father’s club, or whether I’m found a year from now in the nets at Saint-Cloud or the Isle of Swans in the midst of rotten old corks and drowned dogs?”