"Yes."
"For whom?"
"For you."
And he added, lowering his voice, "I have come to speak to you."
I looked at this man. A street-lamp shone on him. He did not avoid the light.
He was a young man with a fair beard, wearing a blue blouse, and who had the gentle bearing of a thinker and the robust hands of a workman.
"Who are you?" I asked him.
He answered,—"I belong to the Society of the Last-makers. I know you very well, Citizen Victor Hugo."
"From whom do you come?" I resumed.
He answered still in a whisper,—