When his dear mother reminded
him of his being a Catholic, he wrote and thanked her for the
information, and hoped the Blessed Maria would take care of her for
evermore, little dreaming that the "Black Maria" would one day take
particularly good care of himself.
So that he forgot the place of his birth, the seat of his ancestors,
the friends of his youth, the face, features, and form of his mother,
his education and religion, his brother officers in the regiment, the
regiment itself, and the position he occupied, thinking he had been a
private for fifteen days instead of a painstaking, studious, diligent
officer, who was beloved by his fellows. He had forgotten all his
neighbours, servants, dependants, as well as the family solicitor who
made his will and was appointed his executor. He forgot his life in
Paris, the village church of his ancestral seat--nay, the ancestral
seat itself--and the very road that led to it. He forgot his old
friend and historian, who swore he had never altered the least in
appearance since Roger left--historian and picture-cleaner to the
family. In short, there was not one single thing in the life of Roger
that he knew. He forgot what any but a born fool would remember while
he was in poverty and bankruptcy for a couple of hundred pounds; the
real Roger had written home on hearing of the death of his uncle, from
whom he derived his title and estates, saying, "Pray go to Messrs.
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