One bright, sunny day she was seated in her room, sewing
some garment or other for her sorry evening toilet.
Now and then she looked up from her work at the lilac
that hung at the head of the bed. At one of these
moments while her gaze was fixed upon the sprig of faded
flower the clock struck four.

Then she fancied she saw an extraordinary thing.

A sort of crimson pearl oozed from the extremity of the
stalk of the flower, grew larger, and dripped on to the
white sheet of the bed.

It was a spot of blood.

That day, at that very hour, Ratta and Malagutti were
executed.

It was evident that the white lilac was one of these two.
But which one?

The hapless girl became insane and had to be confined
in La Salpêtrière. She died there. From morn to night,
and from night to morn, she would gibber: "I am Mme.
Ratta-Malagutti."

Thus are these sombre hearts.