A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own this. The Three Musketeers belongs to Alexandre Dumas.
Ok. So this is a lot shorter than my other chapters, but I think it's sufficient.
M. de Treville let them in, though he made sure to express his displeasure at their knocking upon his door and bringing a possible discharge from the Musketeers with them.
"If I lose two of my best over some...would you two care to explain exactly who this is and why you've brought him to my house in the middle of the night in such a state?" he asked as he pushed a glass of wine in front of the young man, who was still weeping inconsolably and prattling on in Italian while staring at them with large eyes.
"It was a money mugging," Porthos said quickly. "But he had no money with him. He can't understand us, and we can't understand him."
M. de Treville sighed. "I don't speak that much Italian. Not enough to communicate with him on the level needed to get him to calm down. It'll take a doctor and tonics for that. But I'll send Evere out, and while he's getting the doctor I'll see if Ican't get a few words out of him. Evere! Run and fetch a doctor. It's not an emergency, but his assistance is required. Tell him to bring a couple calming tonics with him."
The servant hurried out from his spot in the hallway, and M. de Treville sat down across from the young man.
"Il tuo nome?" he asked softly, and then added in French, "Names are a good starting place."
"Lei parlaitaliano?Lei capisce—si può spiegare?—" M. de Treville shook his head and held up a hand. "I don't speak enough Italian to understand a word of that."
"Troppo. Il tuo nome?" he asked again.
The young man stopped short. His lip quivered and his eyes filled with tears, and when M. de Treville repeated his question once more he only shook his head with a lost expression in his dark eyes.
"Nothing. He doesn't want to answer that question yet," M. de Treville muttered. "But we'll try something else. Quanit anni?"
"Diciannove."
M. de Treville smiled and relayed the information to the musketeers. "Nineteen. It's a good place to start." He nodded encouragingly at the young man and asked "Perché sei qui?"
The young man darted a quick look at the two musketeers who stood beside Treville and then kept quiet. M. de Treville shook his head once, mimicking the young man's action, and then he changed the shake to another nod.
"Amici," he said soothingly, and poured another glass of wine.
The young man took a deep breath and began to rattle off a long story in confusing Italian. M. de Treville shook his head repeatedly as he tried to follow, repeating the words he understood, which showed them both just how little Italian he knew. Finally he nodded toward the abandoned glass of wine and directed his attention to Athos and Porthos.
"I caught only a few key words, but he said something about seminary...a duel...temporary leave...and a mugging." He sighed and rubbed his face. "That's all I can gather, and"—he looked at the young Italian, who was drinking his wine in small sips past the tears that had started with the rendition of his tale—"I don't think it's a good idea to ask him to repeat it. He's not in shock, I don't think, but he's unsettled, and he's trusted us with a large amount of personal information as it is."
"What about his name?" Athos asked.
M. de Treville shifted in his chair and opened his mouth to ask the young man's name, but the door opened in the hallway. "The doctor," he said. "Perhaps he can get the lad to calm down, and we'll get a name out of him after he's less distraught."
The doctor spoke no Italian whatsoever, and his work was quick, efficient, and absolutely silent. The young man had given up speaking, having finally understood that they didn't understand his language. Without M. de Treville's questioning, even his one-word responses ceased. The doctor looked him over and soon pronounced him unhurt save for a few bruises. The emotional side-effects of the young man's traumatic night were soon brought down with a little medicine, which the doctor assured them only relieved the pain and calmed the nerves, but wouldn't act as a sedative, though he did slip one to M. de Treville in case it would be needed.
"My suggestion is to help him as much as you can. He can't speak French, and he's had a rather unsettling evening. I see you've given him some wine. Give him a little more, try to get his name from him, but if he persists in not telling you, let it lie. Don't stress him out, don't upset him, and as soon as he's told you his name or he looks like he's not going to, put him to bed. You can move him, but I wouldn't move him far, and don't take him anywhere near where he got mugged. If he gets hysterical tomorrow, give him the sedative, and if it persists, I'll bleed him a little bit later on in the week." The doctor rattled off his precriptions and left.
M. de Treville said, "We'll try to get his name one more time. Il tuo nome?"
The young man hesitated for a second, and then whispered,
"Renato d'Her—Aramis."