"Jeanne," and his voice is quiet until it's almost a mumble. "Have you ever loved anyone?"
France knows he is being much too hopeful but everything about her is beautiful and he can't help it. He'd been raised by fairy tales where women would be fair in skin and soft around the edges; hair that could be thrown down towers as rope, legs that could dance a waltz for hours and never tire, feet so tiny they could fit into glass slippers without breaking them. And she was nothing like that but she was everything like beautiful to him.
Her skin's swarthy, the romantic in him complains, and it's not as white as snow. Her hair's short - like a man's, what sort of lady would ever do such a thing? Her legs are too short for a proper waltz and her feet are large and her strides are too wide. There is something wrong with this girl and there is something wrong with you if you could ever find yourself in love with her.
And those are his excuses; she's not pretty and she's not lady-like, she's not good enough and there is something wrong with this girl.
But there's something so gloriously right with her too and when France looks at her it is like the days it is too cold and you walk into a room that is warm and just right, the feeling of safety.
And she's so beautiful.
Jeanne doesn't seem to think much of his question; she's always been a person who asks questions later, he reflects; and after a moment of thought she replies.
"I love God." and her voice is so very sure of herself.
"Is that all?"
"Is there any need for anyone else?" Jeanne asks, and yes, that was beautiful too; how much she cared about her religion, how pious she was, how devoted. She was brave for what she loved, and he loved her, yes, he loved her. He loved her for the reason she did not love him and
"Of course not." France replies.