“If it was Bonnebault,” cried Fourchon, “he who is one of the pillars of the place, I’ll—I’ll—Enough!”
“You old sot, what has all that got to do with having sold your clothes? You sold them because you did sell them; you’re of age!” said Tonsard, slapping the old man’s knee. “Come, do honor to my drink and redden up your throat! The father of Mam Tonsard has a right to do so; and isn’t that better than spending your silver at Socquard’s?”
“What a shame it is that you have been fifteen years playing for people to dance at Tivoli and you have never yet found out how Socquard cooks his wine,—you who are so shrewd!” said his daughter; “and yet you know very well that if we had the secret we should soon get as rich as Rigou.”
Throughout the Morvan, and in that region of Burgundy which lies at its feet on the side toward Paris, this boiled wine with which Mam Tonsard reproached her father 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.