is a rather costly beverage which plays a great
part in the life of the peasantry, and is made by all grocers and
wine-dealers, and wherever a drinking-shop exists. This precious liquor,
made of choice wine, sugar, and cinnamon and other spices, is
preferable to all those disguises or mixtures of brandy called ratafia,
one-hundred-and-seven, brave man's cordial, black currant wine,
vespetro, spirit-of-sun, etc. Boiled wine is found throughout France and
Switzerland. Among the Jura, and in the wild districts trodden only by a
few special tourists, the innkeepers call it, on the word of commercial
travellers, the wine of Syracuse. Excellent it is, however, and their
guests, hungry as hounds after ascending the surrounding peaks, very
gladly pay three and four francs a bottle for it. In the homes of the
Morvan and in Burgundy the least illness or the slightest agitation of
the nerves is an excuse for boiled wine. Before and after childbirth the
women take it with the addition of burnt sugar. Boiled wine has soaked
up the property of many a peasant, and more than once the seductive
liquid has been the cause of marital chastisement.

"Ha! there's no chance of grabbing that secret," replied Fourchon,
"Socquard always locks himself in when he boils his wine; he never told
how he does it to his late wife. He sends to Paris for his materials."

"Don't plague your father," cried Tonsard; "doesn't he know? well, then,
he doesn't know! People can't know everything!"

Fourchon grew very uneasy on seeing how his son-in-law's countenance
softened as well as his words.

"What do you want to rob me of now?" he asked, candidly.

"I?" said Tonsard, "I take none but my legitimate dues; if I get
anything from you it is in payment of your daughter's portion, which you
promised me and never paid."

Fourchon, reassured by the harshness of this remark, dropped his head on
his breast as though vanquished and convinced.

"Look at that pretty snare," resumed Tonsard, coming up to his
father-in-law and laying the trap upon his knee. "Some of these days
they'll want game at Les Aigues, and we shall sell them their own, or
there will be no good God for the poor folks."

"A fine piece of work," said the old man, examining the mischievous
machine.

"It is very well to pick up the sous now, papa," said Mam Tonsard, "but
you know we are to have our share in the cake of Les Aigues."

"Oh, what chatterers women are!" cried Tonsard. "If I am han