The Bravees was the residence of a man named Lethierry.  He had raised himself to a position of wealth by starting the first steamboat between Guernsey and the coast of Normandy; he called this vessel La Durande; the natives, who prophesied evil of such a frightful invention, called it the Devil’s Boat.  But the Durande went to and fro without disaster, and Lethierry’s gold increased.  There was nothing in all the universe he loved so much as this marvellous ship worked by steam.  Next to the Durande, he most loved his pretty niece Derouchette, who kept house for him.

One day as Gilliatt was walking over the snow-covered roads, Derouchette, who was ahead of him, had stopped for a moment, and stooping down, had written something with her finger in the snow.  When the fisherman reached the place, he found that the mischievous little creature had written his name there.  Ever since that hour, in the almost unbroken solitude of his life, Gilliatt had thought about Derouchette.

Now that he heard of news at the Bravees, the lonely man made his way to Lethierry’s house, which was the nest of Derouchette.

The news was soon told.  The Durande was lost!  Presently, amid the details of the story—­the Durande had been wrecked in a fog on the terrible rocks known as the Douvres—­one thing emerged:  the engines were intact.  To rescue the Durande was impossible; but the machinery might still be saved.  These engines were unique.  To construct others like them, money was wanting; but to find the artificer would have been still more difficult.  The constructor was dead.  The machinery had cost two thousand pounds.  As long as these engines existed, it might almost be said that there was no shipwreck.  The loss of the engines alone was irreparable.

Now, if ever a dream had appeared wild and impracticable, it was that of saving the engines then embedded between the Douvres.  The idea of sending a crew to work upon those rocks was absurd.  It was the season of heavy seas.  Besides, on the narrow ledge of the highest part of the rock there was scarcely room for one person.  To save the engines, therefore, it would be necessary for a man to go to the Douvres, to be alone in that sea, alone at five leagues from the coast, alone in that region of terrors, for entire weeks, in the presence of dangers foreseen and unforeseen—­without supplies in the face of hunger and nakedness, without companionship save that of death.

A pilot present in the room delivered judgment.

“No; it is all over.  The man does not exist who could go there and rescue the machinery of the Durande.”

“If I don’t go,” said the engineer of the lost ship, who loved those engines, “it is because nobody could do it”

“If he existed——­” continued the pilot.

Derouchette turned her head impulsively, and interrupted.

“I would marry him,” she said innocently.

There was a pause.  A man made his way out of the crowd, and standing before her, pale and anxious, said, “You would marry him, Miss Derouchette?”