He went to the post-office. The post-master was at home, but he was always at home. He had allowed himself to be confined in a regular bird-cage of a room, which he dignified by the name of an office, for the salary of twenty two pounds ten a year. When he was not occupied with any postal business, he amused himself by whistling and singing like a canary-bird. He was thus employed when Bräsig came in, and said: "Good morning, post-master. You are a man of honour, so I do not hesitate to speak to you about an affair of great delicacy. You needn't be told what it is exactly, for it is a secret, and you must promise not to breathe a word of what I am at liberty to tell you. I am going to write to Paris."--"To Paris? Confound you, what have you got to do writing to Paris?"--"To Paris," repeated Bräsig, drawing himself up.--"What the devil's the matter now! One bailiff gets a letter from Paris, and another wants to send one there. Well, I'll look and see how much the postage will cost." He looked it up in his book, and said at last: "I can't find it here. But it'll cost a pretty penny, it can't be less than sixteen pence."--"That doesn't matter. I earned one and eight pence this morning at the town-hall."--"Who are you going to write to?"--"To young Mr. Frank von Rambow."--"Do you know his address, the place where he lives?"--"Why, Paris!"--"But Paris is a large place. You must know the name of the street and the number of his house."--"God bless my soul!" cried Bräsig. "What a fuss to make about such a small matter! I don't know either."--"Can't you ask Hawermann?"--"But you see that's impossible. I don't want him to know anything about it."--"Then the only thing I can think of, is to send the letter to Dr. Ürtlingen at the Mecklenburg Embassy, perhaps he may find out where he lives."--"Of course he _must_," said Bräsig, "for the letter is one of great importance, and he's paid for doing such things. But I was going to ask, if I might write here in your house, as I don't want Hawermann to know anything about the letter?"--"Oh, certainly," replied the post-master, "come in here that my wife mayn't see you, for though properly speaking this is only a waiting room, she won't allow anyone under the rank of a count to enter it. I'm afraid that I must lock you in."--Bräsig consented, so there he sat from three in the afternoon till dusk of evening writing his letter. In the office in front of him was the post-master whistling merrily. The post-mistress tried to get into her best parlour, but all in vain did she rattle at the door, her husband had the key in his pocket, and went on whistling and singing as if he had nothing to do with it. Bräsig wrote and wrote. At last the letter was finished. He read it over and we may now see what he had written, it was as follows: "Honoured Sir,