“There are two girls—fifteen or sixteen years of age at the most—mere children—and so pretty!”
“Poor little things!” said Rodin, with an affectation of interest.
“The person to whom they owe their lives is with them. He is a real hero!”
“A hero?”
“Yes; only fancy—”
“You can tell me all this by and by. Just slip on this dry warm dressing-gown, and take some of this hot wine. You are wet through.”
“I’ll not refuse, for I am almost frozen to death. I was telling you that the person who saved these young girls was a hero; and certainly his courage was beyond anything one could have imagined. When I left here with the men of the farm, we descended the little winding path, and arrived at the foot of the cliff—near the little creek of Goelands, fortunately somewhat sheltered from the waves by five or six enormous masses of rock stretching out into the sea. Well, what should we find there? Why, the two young girls I spoke of, in a swoon, with their feet still in the water, and their bodies resting against a rock, as though they had been placed there by some one, after being withdrawn from the sea.”
“Dear children! it is quite touching!” said M. Rodin, raising, as usual, the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as though to dry a tear, which was very seldom visible.
“What struck me was their great resemblance to each other,” resumed the bailiff; “only one in the habit of seeing them could tell the difference.”
“Twin—sisters, no doubt,” said Madame Dupont.