Once again he salaamed to the ground. "The gratitude of this old slave of the Court will go with the Huzoor all his days."
I left him salaaming still among the graves. As I drove back I regretted not having lingered to pick his brains concerning those centuries of his ancestors' service. Good stories must have been handed down as heirlooms; one curious as I was of the past might have heard much of interest.
But holiday was over. My Crowned Head had returned, making me responsible. In addition, fate was unkind. My major-domo, on whose care during those strenuous days when meals were oft-deferred. I was entirely dependent, fell sick and had to go to hospital. Not, however, before he had, in kindly Indian fashion, found me a substitute. Everyone who has been in India knows the type of professional cook-room substitute. They are to be seen sometimes in old dâk bungalows, survivals still of the patronage of other days when such posts were the recognised superannuation pensions for civilians' servants. And this substitute of mine--I call them scapegoats as a rule, since all the subsequent sins of omission or commission in the back purlieus are invariably laid to their charge--differed in no way from the type. He was rather more aggressive in starch than most. He had the biggest of white turbans, and the forward bow of his arched back was a little more accentuated than usual by folds on folds of white bandaging until he looked as if he were wearing an extra sized, new whited motor tyre round his waist. But his scanty beard was purple black, and his eyes were brightened to youth with beautiful rims of antimony. Altogether he looked his part to perfection; and for a wonder, performed it also.
My table servant admitted at once that he was a "master artificer," and I, personally, confessed that never had I had such appetising dinners. Most of these substitutes have old-world dishes at their fingers' ends; dishes with strange names which philology can trace back to French and Portuguese origin, but this old man might have come from a Parisian restaurant.
"This slave belongs to a family of cooks," he said calmly, when I questioned him as to where he had learnt to make "Petits Timbales de foie gras à la Belle Eugénie." "Therefore the wisdom of all the ages is at his disposal. When a slave's mind is set on serving his master, nothing is impossible."
And nothing seemed to be. My Inspector-General was a gourmet. He breakfasted with me in camp one morning, and after that it is surprising how often his meal times tallied with mine. So, in the course of a few days, the fame of my cook became noised abroad; especially when the Crowned Head started on a shooting tour and had to leave his French chef behind him; the latter not feeling equal to camp fires.
Then the Substitute came to the fore, and once or twice when I had the honour of dining at the Royal table, I noticed dishes which I could have sworn my man had prepared. Knowing the curious bond of brotherhood which exists in India between one cook-room and another, I knew this was quite possible.
We had some hard marching, and at the end of a week, I noticed that my substitute was palpably older. The surma had worn off his eyes; there was a fringe of grey beard above the purple black; yet still he looked magnificently starched as he stood behind my chair on the frequent occasions when the suite messed with royalty. Then we arrived at a Hill Rajah-ship where there had been some trouble during a long minority between Palace-Women and a Council of Regency; neither being oversatisfied with the Resident. But our Royal visit was to inaugurate a new regime under a new young Rajah, and great were to be the rejoicings; amongst other things a State Dinner in the Palace.
We were a bit late coming in from a shoot after black partridge, and I had a good many preparations to make, as I was in police charge, so that it was almost dark ere I returned to my tent to dress for dinner. To my surprise I found the Substitute immaculate one inside. He was immaculate as ever, but he looked old and frail and worn. Still it needed one of those sudden enlargements of personality, which are so puzzling, to make the shadows of the tent bring what the light of day had denied to me--recognition of the old man I had met amongst the latticed Tombs of Kings--the man who had lost his tombstone.
"You old scoundrel," I said. "Why didn't you tell me before who you were."