It was autumn in the seventh year of Taishō (1918). The Akiko of that time, on her way back to her villa at Kamakura, met by chance on the train a young novelist with whom she was slightly acquainted. The young man put a bunch of chrysanthemums which he was taking to a friend in Kamakura up into the rack. Then Akiko, who was now the elderly Madame H⸺, told him that there was a story of which she was always reminded whenever she saw chrysanthemums and recounted to him in detail her reminiscences of the ball at the Rokumeikan. He could not but feel a deep interest when he heard such reminiscences from the mouth of the woman herself.
When the story was over, he casually asked,
“Madame, do you not know the name of that French naval officer?”
Then old Madame H⸺ gave him an unexpected answer.
“Of course I do. His name was Julian Viaud.”
“Then it was Loti, wasn’t it? It was Pierre Loti, who wrote Madame Chrysantheme , wasn’t it?”
The young man felt an agreeable excitement. But old Madame H⸺ simply looked into his face wonderingly and murmured over and over,
“No, his name wasn’t Loti. It was Julian Viaud.”