Within the precincts of that resort for foreigners and provincials in Paris the Palais Royal, is situate the Rue du 24 Fevrier. This revolutionary name, given after the last outbreak, is still pronounced with difficulty by those who, of old, were wont to call it the Rue de Valois. People are becoming accustomed to call the royally named street by its revolutionary title, although it is probable that no one will ever succeed in calling the Palais Royal, Palais National; the force of habit being in this instance too great to efface old recollections. Few foreigners have ever penetrated into the Rue du 24 Fevrier, though it forms one of the external galleries of the Palais Royal, and one may see there the smoky kitchens, dirty cooks,—the nightside, in fact, of the splendid restaurants whose gilt fronts attract attention inside. Rubicund apples, splendid game, truffles, and ortolans, deck the one side; smoke, dirty plates, rags, and smutty saucepans may be seen on the other. It is from an office in the Rue du 24 Fevrier, almost opposite the dark side of a gorgeous Palais Royal restaurant, that issue 40,000 copies of a daily print, entitled the ‘Constitutionnel.’ Newspaper offices, be it remarked, are always to be found in odd holes and corners. To the mass in London, Printing-house Square, or Lombard Street, Whitefriars, are mystical localities; yet they are the daily birthplaces of that fourth estate which fulminates anathemas on all the follies and weaknesses of governments, and, without which, no one can feel free or independent. The ‘Constitutionnel’ office is about as little known to the mass of its subscribers as either Printing-house Square or Whitefriars. There is always an old and respectable look about the interior of newspaper establishments, in whatever country you may find them. For rusty dinginess, perhaps there is nothing to equal a London office, with its floors strewed with newspapers from all parts of the world, parliamentary reports, and its shelves creaking under books of all sorts thumbed to the last extremity. Notwithstanding these appearances, however, there is discipline,—there is real order in the apparent disorder of things. Those newspapers that are lying in heaps have to be accurately filed; those books of reference can be pounced upon when wanted on the instant; and as to reports, the place of each is as well known as if all labelled and ticketed with the elaborate accuracy of a public library. Not less rusty and not less disorderly is the appearance of a French newspaper office; but how different the aspect of things from what you see in England! Over the office of the ‘Constitutionnel’ is a dingy tricolor flag. A few broken steps lead to a pair of folding-doors. Inside is the sanctuary of the office, guarded by that flag as if by the honour of the country; for the tricolor represents all Frenchmen, be he prince or proletarian.