I met the Prince in the New Road, at the outskirts of London, some time afterwards. He pulled up his horse, to inquire about my health and learn where I was to be found. I gave him a very incorrect address, and his groom had on the following day failed to find me out. The prince then set off in his curricle, to search for me himself, and, having found a house in the neighbourhood where I had formerly lived, he wanted the owners to take charge of a letter for me, which was rudely refused. On the third day, the prince's servant was again despatched on the same errand, and he was at last successful.
"I have been two whole days vainly endeavouring to find you out, madam," said the servant, while delivering into my hands the prince's note, which contained an earnest request for me to appoint an hour to receive his visit.
I named Sunday at two o'clock, and immediately handed over his note to Mr. Livius, the amateur play-writer, French horn-blower, lady-killer, &c. He joined with me in anxious surprise, at what this sudden impressement, of a man who for years had been in the constant habit of meeting me in public, could mean.
On Sunday morning, it so happened that Livius wanted me to read my translation of Molière's play to him.
"But the German prince?" said I.
"Oh never mind a German prince! I'll wait in the parlour while you speak to him, in case he should have any secret communication to make to you."
Livius called at one o'clock, and, just as I was about to begin my play, Esterhazy drove up to my door.
Livius saw him from the window, and went down into the parlour.
The prince entered and, throwing off his large German cloak, shook hands with me.
"Prince," said I, "I know you don't come here to make love to me, which knowledge renders me the more curious to learn what you do come here for."