He went to the post-office. The postmaster was at home, he was always at home; for a hundred and fifty thalers salary, he had imprisoned himself for life, not in a room, no, in a bird-cage, which he called his "comptoir," and when he had no postal business, he sat there and played the flute, and sung, like the finest canary-bird. He was engaged in this agreeable business, when Bräsig entered:
"Good-day, Herr Postmaster. You are a man of honor, therefore I wish to ask your assistance in a delicate matter. Of course, it isn't necessary for you to know the thing itself, that must remain a secret, and what I tell you must also remain a secret. I am going to write to Paris."
"To Paris? What the devil are you writing to Paris for?"
"To Paris," said Bräsig, drawing himself up.
"What in the world!" said the postmaster, "one of you inspectors gets a letter from Paris, and the other will send one. Well, we will see how much it costs." He turned his books over, and said at last, "I can't find it here, I will reckon it up; it cannot be done under sixteen groschen."
"No matter, I have earned twenty groschen this morning, at the court."
"Whom is the letter for?"
"The young Herr Franz von Rambow."
"Do you know his address, where he lives?"
"Why, in Paris."