Santiago had come to France from a place that was, in some ways, lawless. The frontier of New France was a rough, wild place and saw its fair share of conflict and cruelty. But France was his father’s country, meant to be a realm of civilized people, as he understood it. This was the furthest thing he could imagine from “civilized.”
He did not know why he had come out into the city to see this - curiosity probably played a significant part in it. But now he regretted it, lingering toward the back of the jeering mass of people, hat shielding his face from the sun. The judgments were swift, the hangings even moreso, and the crowd still did not seem satisfied. He could hardly understand it - particularly given what the men were being punished for. Were these people really so attached to d’Aumont, or were they simply after any blood they could find?
He was about to make his way back to the palace, trying to swallow back his disgust, when he recognized a face not too far away in the crowd, looking just as distressed as he felt. He approached the woman quickly - certainly feeling compassion at how shaken he seemed. “Mademoiselle Duval, oui?” He spoke as loudly as he could without shouting and startling her - trying to be heard over the crowd. “Are you alright?”