“This is a dungeon!” he objected.
“Oh no,” said Corentin. “Our dungeons are much narrower, and have no windows at all. Your father’s new apartment is a dungeon. This is a winery. At least, it will be a winery when the Duc’s men have brought barrels and vats from your former establishment.”
The room had not seemed very large when Benedict first measured it with his eye; when his imagination imported a vat and a dozen barrels—which was less than half of the apparatus presently contained in Frederic Paschel’s winery—he realized that he would hardly have space enough to stretch himself out to sleep.
“The conditions are hardly conducive to good wine-making,” he complained. “I need light, and air, and....”
“Then you will have to earn them,” the steward said, “by the quality of your labor.” A
