"The carriage is at the door."
I sealed the letter, and handed it to him.
"In case of accidents," said I, "post this."
Joubert saluted, and put it in his pocket without glancing at the superscription.
Joubert was grave. He had never saluted me before, except in a spirit of half mockery—the way one would salute a child.
I had been a child in his eyes until now, but now I was evidently a man, his master; and nothing seemed, up to this, to have divided me so sharply from my childhood and my past as this suddenly begotten change in Joubert's manner; and as I stepped from the hall-door on to the pavement I felt that I was stepping for the first time into the world of manhood; that all had been play with me till now, and that now, this morning, the grim business of life had begun.
Joubert got on the box beside the coachman, and we started.
The early sun was bright on the trees and houses of the Champs Elysées; the trees of the Bois de Boulogne were waving in the early morning breeze; all was bright and all was fair; and it seemed a pity—a thousand pities—to have to die a morning like this, to shut one's eyes for ever, and never more see the sun.
As we drew near our destination, I felt exactly as I often had felt in childhood when at the door of the dentist's: a strong desire to return home, coupled with a strong repugnance to face what had to be done.
The avenue of the Minimes has vanished. It was a lovely place, tree-sheltered and leading by a pond where the green rushes whispered beneath silvery willows, making a picture after the heart of Puvis de Chavannes. It opened out of a broad drive, and was a favourite spot for the settlement of affairs of honour.