D'Artagnan's hands were sweating as he quickly set the woodpile and ash bucket down beside the fireplace. He tried to push down the feeling of panic, focusing instead upon the tightness of the skin on his shoulders and the ache on the balls of his feet where each step reminded him of his mission.
He had five minutes, give or take the acting abilities of his comrades.
The chest was set into the wall of the office. With hands he refused to let shake, d'Artagnan took the key from where it was safely tucked inside the band of his hat.
For a tense moment it refused to turn inside the lock, but a few wiggles and the teeth slid into place.
Barely breathing, d'Artagnan took out the bundle of papers from the otherwise bare interior, laying them out in a neat line so that he did not disturb their order.
The first three were sealed but looked like paid invoices to local merchants.
The second two were unsealed, and he spent several precious moments scanning their contents, only to be disappointed.
The last letter was unaddressed and sealed, the fatness of its contents suggesting something tantalising within.
Did he dare open the letter and risk all? D'Artagnan bit his lip in indecision and then quickly slipped to the table, taking up the letter knife and gently teasing the wax from paper. He had to go slowly, careful not to let the paper tear. Finally, heart bounding heavily in his throat, d'Artagnan's efforts were rewarded and the wax snapped free.
He spread the paper as far open as he dared, wishing to keep the creasing undisturbed.
Inside we're numbers – dates perhaps? – values neatly inscribed beside them. Some also had words he did not know but were quite blatantly Spanish in origin.
D'Artagnan almost stopped breathing. This was it! He made to stuff the paper inside his jerkin but paused. Was this enough? What if d'Melliuor could explain the paper away with a lie? He was a noble, after all, nothing but catching the man in the act would be enough to incriminate him.
The last date, tomorrow, caught his eye, left without numbers beside it, but a single word: "ferreruolo".
Hastily, d'Artagnan crossed to the fire, holding the wax seal out toward the flames. When it was sufficiently melted he carefully re-folded the letter and pressed the seal closed. Thankfully it looked no different for his interference. He went to the lockbox, gathering the letters to replace as he had found them.
A crash had him leaping in the air, scattering the pages. He cursed on instinct, cursing again at his nerves which had lost him precious time now that the signal had been given.
Hastily gathering the papers once more, near to certain he had the order aright, d'Artagnan listened as d'Melliuor's sneer loudly chided Porthos for being a clumsy oaf.
Porthos was finished grumbling his apology when d'Artagnan was done, slipping the lock closed and hiding the key once more in his hat. As Henri's footsteps ascended the stair, he rushed to the fire, piling wood and clearing the ash as quickly as he was able. Damn him for not preparing his escape beforehand!
The door clicked open as he was shoveling the last of the ash into his bucket. Trying not to look startled or guilty, d'Artagnan turned to face the entree.
"Good Afternoon, Captain." His tone was respectful and sunny, and he was proud with how level it was despite the beating of his heart. Thank God he had been tending a fire, the sweat on his brow would not be suspect.
"What are you doing in here, Cadet?" Henri snapped.
"Just tending the fire, sir," d'Artagnan said. Did d'Melliuor look suspicious? Was that a tell-tale anxious flicker in his eyes toward the lockbox?
"How did you get in?"
D'Artagnan allowed himself to blink in confusion. "I... the door, sir?"
"I am not a simpleton. The door was locked," d'Melliuor snapped.
"I beg your pardon, it was ajar when I passed, sir," d'Artagnan hoped he was oozing as much respectful sincerity as he had practiced for. His hands ached from his quick work, the scabs over the cuts itching as the sweat seeped into them.
D'Melliuor looked like he did not believe him all the same, but he let the matter slide for now.
"Who ordered you to tend the fireplace?"
"Commander Jussac has instructed me to tend all the barrack fireplaces, sir." That was technically true, though the Captain's room had never been tacitly included.
D'Melliuor grunted sourly and crossed to his desk. D'Artagnan waited at attention to be dismissed.
"You are not to do so again, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir."
Henri jerked his head toward the door and d'Artagnan snatched up his ash bucket, hurrying to obey the unspoken command.
"Hold."
D'Artagnan's hand stayed on the handle for a brief, terrified moment.
"Sir?" he ventured.
D'Melliuor looked down pointedly at his desk, upon which lay a few scattered papers. D'Artagnan hadn't looked at them, knowing anything of traitorous import would be safely locked away.
"Did you read my papers?"
"No, sir!"
He was flushing, damn him. Why now?
"Come here."
D'Artagnan let his hand fall from the handle as if letting go of a life raft. He set down his ash bucket and came to stand at attention before the Captain's desk.
The look d'Melliuor gave him turned his guts to ice.
"You read my papers."
"I promise you, sir, I did not!"
Henri stood, slowly, like a snake uncurling from its nest. He walked around the desk until he stood behind d'Artagnan, his body near flush with him, his breath cooling the sweat upon his nape so that he could not help but shiver.
"You read my papers, and now you lie about it."
"Why would I wish to read your papers, sir?" d'Artagnan asked and immediately wished he hadn't.
"Why indeed?" D'Melliuor made his way back around the table, his arms held behind his back in an easy manner.
"...Curiosity, perhaps, or a more nefarious purpose. Perhaps you wished to find some secret, or you were looking for something to steal—"
"—No, sir, I—"
"Silence!" D'Melliuor slammed his hand down upon the tabletop. "I detest liars and thieves above all others. I thought you could be cured of your ridiculous infatuation with those other miscreants and their troublemaking ways, that you might as yet find your place in this garrison; one befitting your lowly station. But it seems you are incorrigible. I see no other option but to order your immediate dismissal."
Where he had blushed now d'Artagnan felt the blood drain from his cheeks.
"Please, sir…" he started.
D'Melliuor cut him off with a glare.
"Youthful high-spirits can be trained out like one would a wilful cur, but I will not abide liars in my regiment, do you understand?"
D'Artagnan faltered. He was trapped, bound to his course of action by d'Melliuor's poison words. His pride, his honour, wrenched at the words he was forced to say, but say them he did, adopting a contrite, bashful tone.
"I was… simply curious, sir."
Henri's eyes flashed with triumph. "So, you admit to prying through my papers, boy?"
"I..." d'Artagnan dropped his head, hoping to hide the frustrated fury within his expression. "I could not help myself, sir... I meant no harm."
D'Melliuor grunted in satisfaction. His hands came to his desk, pulling open the long drawer at its middle.
"It seems that a more direct form of correction might prove effective, where formal penance did not," he said. D'Artagnan heard the sound of wood withdrawn from the table, but kept his eyes fixed upon the surface, fighting the urge to run the captain through.
"In your confession you have shown a hint of promise. Let us see if we cannot cure you of your meddlesome curiosity."
Henry's thin fingertips fell upon a parchment upon the table, twisting it until it faced d'Artagnan. He heard the man move, staking behind him like a prowling wolf.
A tight tap upon his backside.
"Lean over the desk."
Thanking God that he had no cuts upon his rear and that the bruises were all but faded, d'Artagnan bent stiffly forward. He rested his forearms upon the cool wood, the parchment between them.
"Read aloud."
The cane, for it must have been such an instrument, lifted his jerkin with menacing slowness, exposing his breeches fully. He wet his lips, forcing himself to remain calm.
"Twenty hundred hours," he began, his voice hoarse.
The cane whistled through the air, landing a thickly cutting stripe upon the fullness of his flesh. D'Artagnan flinched and cleared his throat.
"Proceed along Boulevard Poissonnière until the Porte Saint-Martin."
The paper was long and boring, a patrol route for that evening. At each completed sentence the cane fell, punctuating his words. He refused to cry out but his breath came more harshly, his words cut off with stifled gasps. After ten strokes, d'Melliuor had hit his stride, managing to land each subsequent blow directly upon its predecessor before moving on.
"Proceed to—AH!"
"Continue."
"Proceed to the Rue Montmarte and return by Rue de Cléry..." D'Artagnan's voice was damp, shaking with suppressed, impotent rage.
A knock on the door halted Henri mid-swing. D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered closed in mortification as the captain called admittance without ordering him to move.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for the interruption." Antionne's voice, cold and indifferent. "I can return later, if it pleases you?"
"No need, we are done here," Henri said calmly. "You may stand, cadet."
D'Artagnan did so, as swiftly and unfaltering as he could muster. He would not allow this shame to unman him, particularly with Antionne's eyes upon him.
"Teaching the mongrel his manners, I see," Antionne said with lofty disdain.
"Now, Lieutenant," Henri did not bother to keep the humour from his mock admonishment, "the boy is here to train and to learn."
Antionne gave a falsely apologetic bow. "Of course, Captain. I am certain that there are many things that the young peasant may learn from you."
D'Artagnan did not miss the significance of those words, silently congratulating Antionne for his veiled sarcasm and his timely interruption. The younger d'Melliuor remained outwardly callous, however; ignoring d'Artagnan in favour of his father.
D'Artagnan saluted both d'Melliuors.
"Thank you, Captain," he said, and meant it: every slight and loss of dignity by Henri's hand was another reason to pay the man back tenfold.
Henri tapped him upon the chest with the cane, emphasising his words. "Let this be a lesson to you, boy. I shall not tolerate devious behaviour of any sort in this garrison. Should you err again, I shall personally beat the lesson into your sorry hide."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Burning with furious hatred, d'Artagnan forced himself to bow in contrition, his words bitter on his tongue. He snatched up the ash bucket and hurried from the room before he could do something he regretted.
He ignored the eyes upon his when he left the captain's office, shutting the door with care behind him. Aramis and Porthos were at the bottom of the stairs, concern and wrath warring upon their faces. Porthos in particular looked as if he had been close to sabotaging the mission and storming the office.
"Are you well, mon ami?" Aramis asked quietly as he reached the final step.
"I'm fine," d'Artagnan mumbled. There were others about the courtyard at this time of day, and it was clear by the looks he was receiving that the sound of the cane had carried far. He set down his ash bin beside the manure heap, thankful that his chores for the day were finished: attempting to kneel to tend to any more fireplaces would not have been a pleasant experience.
"Have you time to rest?" Aramis pressed. "We can fetch you some food—"
"Are you free from duties?" d'Artagnan cut in, addressing Porthos.
The large man looked startled at the abrupt question but nodded all the same. "Yeah, whelp, what do you need?"
"Good," d'Artagnan stripped from his jerkin, doggedly ignoring his pain. "Spar with me."
Porthos exchanged a look of wary concern with Aramis.
"I don't think that a good—"
"You wanted to help, didn't you?" d'Artagnan demanded. "Right now I feel a mighty need to hit something. Would you oblige me, or do I have to start insulting you first?"
Porthos broke into a wide, toothy grin. "Right."
Writer's note:
I haven't a clue whether the Parisian streets named were around in the 1700s. Let's pretend they were!