In France every man plays at billiards—­nay, every village has its billiard tables, one of which is almost as frequent an article of furniture in private houses, as piano-fortes are in England; and the sign of two maces crossed, and the inscriptions “Cafe et Billards” are as common over the wine-houses in the provinces, as chequers formerly were in our own country towns.  I remember meeting with a curious adventure during my last residence in Paris.  One morning, while leisurely walking in Rue Montmartre, I was accosted in French, by a respectably dressed man, apparently about fifty, who inquired of me the situation of ——­ street, (for at this moment I do not recollect the name).  I replied that, being a foreigner, I could not afford him the required information, at the same time referring him to the next shop.  He did not follow my suggestion, but almost at the very instant my eye caught the name of the street for which he had just inquired.  The stranger then told me that being on a visit to the capital, he was anxious to see the interior of the palace of the Tuilleries, and was proceeding to a friend resident in the above street, who had promised to procure him admission to the royal residence, notwithstanding the king was then in Paris.  I congratulated him on his success, having been, a few days previous, disappointed in the same object, when he offered also to procure admission for myself and one or two of my friends.  We accordingly entered a second rate cafe, when, I made up to the garcon and demanded of him whether orders for viewing the Tuilleries were to be obtained there:  he made no reply, but my friend of the street, who had by this time partly ascended a staircase at the extremity of the room, beckoned, and anxiously besought me to accompany him.  I did so, notwithstanding I was aware that Paris, as well as London, had its “frauds.”  We entered a large room, the first impression of which, on some minds, would have been that of terror.  In the centre stood a handsome billiard-table, over which were two dirty lamps with reflectors; the walls were papered in tawdry French taste, the ceiling black with smoke, and the whole room but indifferently lighted with a disproportionate and dusty window:  the door, too, seemed planned for security, having a large lock and two bolts inside, but exhibited marks of recent repair from violent fracture.  In short, there was a lurking suspicion about the place, which was not lessened by my companion meeting with a partner.  From their conversation I learned they were both foreigners, and were waiting for a friend to bring the orders to view the palace, so that all the story was as yet in keeping, and I was introduced as a suitor for the same favour.  My fellows “in waiting” showed much impatience, complained of cold, and politely asked me to take a glass of liqueur with them, at the same time taking up the mace and beginning to amuse themselves at the billiard-table.  I looked