About this time, the beginning of 1771, I was visited by Mariuccia, whom I had married ten years before to a young hairdresser. My readers may remember how I met her at Abbé Momolo’s. During the three months I had been in Rome I had enquired in vain as to what had become of her; so that I was delighted when she made her appearance.
“I saw you at St. Peter’s,” said she, “at the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, but not daring to approach you because of the people with whom I was, I told a friend of mine to follow you and find out where you lived.”
“How is it that I have tried to find you out in vain for the last three months?”
“My husband set up at Frascati eight years ago, and we have lived there very happily ever since.”
“I am very glad to hear it. Have you any children?”
“Four; and the eldest, who is nine years old, is very like you.”
“Do you love her?”
“I adore her, but I love the other three as well.”
As I wanted to go to breakfast with Armelline I begged Margarita to keep Mariuccia company till my return.
Mariuccia dined with me, and we spent a pleasant day together without attempting to renew our more tender relationship. We had plenty to talk about, and she told me that Costa, my old servant, had come back to Rome in a splendid coach, three years after I had left, and that he had married one of Momolo’s daughters.