RUD. (approaching MARCEL)
And I, Marcel, to be quite candid,
I've no faith in the sweat of my brow.
MAR. All my fingers are frozen
Just as if they'd been touching that iceberg,
Touching that block of marble, the heart of false Musetta.
(Heaves a long sigh, laying aside his palette and brushes, and ceases painting.)
RUD. Ah! love's a stove consuming a deal of fuel!
MAR. Too quickly.
RUD. Where the man does the burning.
MAR. And the woman the lighting.
RUD. While the one turns to ashes.
MAR. So the other stands and watches.
RUD. Meanwhile, in here we're frozen.