Price per pack of cigarettes: tax, margin and increase
The price of cigarettes in France has been increasing steadily for many years, mainly as a result of government policies aimed at reducing tobacco consumption. The retail price of tobacco products is initially proposed by manufacturers or importers, who include production costs, distribution expenses, commercial margins, and mandatory taxes. However, this proposed price must be approved by the French authorities, particularly the Directorate General of Customs and Indirect Taxes, which ensures that it complies with national regulations. Once validated, the price becomes official and must be applied uniformly across the country. This means tobacconists cannot set their own prices, offer discounts, or run promotions on tobacco products.
The final price of a pack of cigarettes consists of three main components: the manufacturer’s share, the tobacconist’s margin, and taxes imposed by the state. Manufacturers receive roughly 15% of the retail price, while tobacconists earn between 8% and 10% for selling the products. The majority of the price, however, comes from taxation. In France, taxes represent about 75% to 80% of the price of cigarettes. These taxes include excise duty and value-added tax, both of which are regularly adjusted by the government through financial legislation.
Excise duty is calculated mainly on the quantity of tobacco produced or imported rather than its value at the point of sale. The tax uses a mixed formula that combines a percentage of the retail price with a fixed amount per quantity of tobacco. If the result is lower than the minimum tax set by the state, the minimum amount is applied. Tobacco products are also subject to VAT, which is included in the retail price.
By January 2026, the average price of a pack of 20 cigarettes in France reached around 12.50 to 13 euros. Some brands exceed 13.50 euros, while the cheapest options remain slightly lower. Over the past two decades, prices have risen dramatically—from around three euros in the early 2000s to about thirteen euros today—reflecting France’s long-term strategy to discourage smoking.
Six weeks after my husband pushed me and our newborn child into a blizzard, I could still hear his last words: “You’ll be alright. You’ll always survive.”
Now, I stood behind his glittering wedding, my baby asleep on my chest. When he saw me, his smile vanished. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. I whispered, “Giving you what you’ve forgotten… and taking back what you’ve stolen.” Then the music stopped.
Six weeks after my husband left me and our newborn to die in a blizzard, I stood behind the wedding tent with my baby breathing softly against my chest. The music inside was sweet, expensive, and cruel.
Snow whispered across the lawn of the Caldwell estate, dusting the glass walls of the heated pavilion where Ethan was marrying Sabrina Monroe, his mistress, his secretary, and the woman who had smiled at my baby shower while wearing my husband’s watch on her wrist.
I remembered the night he pushed us out.
“Ethan, please,” I had begged, clutching Sophie beneath my coat as the wind cut through the doorway. “She’s three days old.”
His mother stood behind him in silk pajamas, arms folded, lips curled.
“You always make yourself the victim,” Margaret said.
Ethan looked down at me like I was a stain on his shoes. “You’ll be alright, Grace. You’ll always survive.”
Then he shoved me backward into the snow and locked the door.
I survived because Mrs. Ramirez next door saw my footprints disappearing toward the road and called 911. I survived because paramedics found Sophie still warm under my sweater. I survived because while Ethan emptied our joint account, filed for emergency divorce, and told everyone I had abandoned him during a postpartum breakdown, I lay in a hospital bed and made three quiet phone calls.
One to my lawyer.
One to my father’s former business partner.
And one to the private investigator I had hired months earlier, when Sabrina started leaving lipstick on Ethan’s coffee cups.
Ethan thought I had no family, no money, no strength. He forgot I had built his company’s first investor deck. He forgot I had signed half the early contracts. He forgot the apartment, the accounts, and the original ownership papers carried my name before his ever mattered.
Inside the pavilion, guests laughed beneath chandeliers. Sabrina’s gown glittered like stolen sunlight. Margaret dabbed happy tears from her eyes.
I stepped from the shadows.
Ethan saw me first.
His smile died instantly.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, blocking the aisle.
I looked at the man who had left my child in the storm.
“Giving you what you’ve forgotten,” I whispered, “and taking back what you’ve stolen.”
Then the music stopped.
Part 2
For three seconds, nobody moved.
The violinist froze with her bow in midair. Sabrina turned, her diamond earrings flashing, irritation crossing her face before recognition twisted it into panic.
“Grace?” she breathed.
Margaret marched toward me first.
“Security! Get her out. She’s unstable.”
I smiled, calm enough to frighten her.
“Careful, Margaret. There are cameras.”
Ethan leaned close, his voice low and venomous.
“You should have stayed gone.”
“She almost did,” said a man behind me.
Detective Carter Reynolds stepped into the aisle in a dark overcoat, followed by two uniformed officers. The guests began whispering. Sabrina’s father stood from the front row, confused and furious.
Ethan’s face hardened.
“This is harassment.”
“No,” I said. “Harassment is calling hospitals and pretending to be my husband to block visitors. Harassment is forging my signature on a custody petition while I was recovering from hypothermia. Attempted abandonment of an infant in life-threatening weather is something else.”
A ripple of horror moved through the room.
Sabrina laughed too loudly.
“This is insane. She’s jealous.”
I shifted Sophie gently against my chest.
“You texted him the idea.”
Sabrina went white.
I raised my phone.
On the pavilion screen behind the altar, the wedding slideshow changed. Gone were engagement photos and beach kisses. In their place appeared messages.
“She’ll survive. She always does.”
“Put her outside. Make it look like she left.”
“Once she’s declared unstable, you get custody and the company.”
The guests gasped. Margaret grabbed the back of a chair.
Ethan lunged toward the screen, but an officer stopped him.
“That’s fake!” he shouted.
My lawyer, Victoria Bennett, stepped forward from the second row. She had arrived earlier as an “old friend” on the guest list.
“Actually, the messages were retrieved from a synced company tablet in Mr. Caldwell’s office. We also have bank records, forged filings, security footage from the apartment hallway, and the hospital report.”
Sabrina’s father turned slowly toward Ethan.
“Company tablet?”
Victoria’s smile was razor-thin.
“That brings us to the second matter.”
I looked at Ethan, and for the first time, he looked afraid.
“You didn’t just steal from me,” I said. “You stole from Caldwell Medical Systems. You diverted investor money into shell accounts under Sabrina’s maiden name.”
Sabrina whispered, “Ethan…”
Margaret snapped, “Stop talking.”
But the wrong people had already heard enough.
Two men in tailored suits rose near the champagne bar.
Federal investigators.
Ethan recognized them too late.
His wedding had become a crime scene.
Part 3
Ethan tried to recover the way arrogant men always do—with volume.
“This woman is mentally ill!” he shouted. “She disappeared with my child!”
I held Sophie tighter, but my voice stayed steady.
“I disappeared into an ambulance because you locked us outside during a blizzard.”
Detective Reynolds opened a folder.
“Ethan Caldwell, you’re being detained pending investigation for child endangerment, domestic assault, fraud, evidence tampering, and conspiracy.”
The pavilion erupted.
Sabrina stumbled backward, stepping on her own dress.
“I didn’t know about the money.”
Victoria lifted one eyebrow.
“Your signature appears on three shell accounts.”
“That was his idea!”
Ethan turned on her.
“You said she was weak! You said she’d never fight back!”
And there it was.
Not an apology. Not remorse.
Just blame.
Margaret rushed at me, shaking with rage.
“You ruined my son.”
I finally let the cold inside me melt into fire.
“No, Margaret. You raised him to believe consequences were for other people. I just brought them to the wedding.”
Guests pulled out phones. Sabrina’s mother sobbed. Her father walked out without looking back.
The officers took Ethan by the arms.
As they led him past me, he stopped struggling. His eyes dropped to Sophie, sleeping peacefully through the destruction of his perfect lie.
“Grace,” he whispered, suddenly soft. “Please. Don’t do this.”
I remembered the blizzard.
I remembered Sophie’s tiny mouth turning blue.
I remembered his final words through the locked door.
I leaned close.
“You’ll be alright,” I whispered. “You always survive.”
His face broke.
Then they took him away.
Sabrina followed minutes later, mascara streaking down her cheeks, still insisting she had been manipulated. Margaret collapsed into a chair as reporters gathered outside the estate gates. By evening, the wedding footage had reached every investor, every board member, and every judge involved in Ethan’s custody lies.
Three months later, I stood in the nursery of my new home, sunlight spilling over Sophie’s crib. Caldwell Medical Systems had removed Ethan and restored my ownership shares after the fraud audit. The court granted me full custody and a permanent protective order. Ethan awaited trial. Sabrina’s plea deal required testimony, restitution, and the end of her glittering career. Margaret sold the estate to cover legal fees.
People asked if revenge felt sweet.
It didn’t.
It felt quiet.
It felt like Sophie’s hand curling around my finger. It felt like sleeping through a storm because no one could lock me out again. It felt like opening the window on a bright morning and realizing the cold no longer owned me.
I had not come back to destroy Ethan.
I had come back to collect my life.
And this time, nobody could steal it.
