A monk stepped out of the shadows. About 40 years old. He wore a brown robe and had shaved his brown hair except for a wreath.
"Brother Martin ..." we heard Quasimodo mutter.
The monk came closer, saw us and crossed himself: "By all holy ones! Why do you wear pants? You are women!"
"That is ... a long story ..." said Jasmin and looked around innocently in the area.
"Where have you been, my son? We were all very worried about you. After all ... What is Notre Dame without her bell ringer?" Said Brother Martin, accompanied by a few gestures.
"They found me and brought me back.", Quasimodo said bitterly. Then he passed the monk and climbed the steps to the tower. Jasmin and I stood there as ordered and not picked up.
"Then I owe you thanks ... in spite of your strange clothes.", Brother Martin said as he circled us once.
I didn't understand this brother Martin. I didn't know him from the novel, so I decided to ask: "Sorry, but who are you?"
"I'm brother Martin. I've known Quasimodo since Archdeacon Frollo, God bless him," he made the cross again, "He accepted. My parents took me to the adjoining monastery when I was 5 years old. I've been serving here for over 25 years in this beautiful cathedral. I instructed Quasimodo on how to ring bells. "
"I see," I said.
"You are welcome to stay. But first you should dress differently," said Brother Martin and led us to the adjoining monastery, the Hotel Dieu. A nun met us there and we had to change. Jasmin went against the grain, but we were in a different time. Different customs prevailed here. Women in this century did not have to wear pants and had to wear high-necked dresses. Not like Jasmin, who likes to show off her cleavage on hot days like on this day. We both came back to the cathedral in nuns' clothes (apart from the headgear, we weren't real nuns). We tortured ourselves up the hundred and hundred steps to the tower. Here I saw Quasimodo clutching a wooden beam and banging his head against it over and over again.
"What the hell is he doing?", Jasmin cursed, while I rushed towards Quasimodo and grabbed his shoulders. The laceration on his forehead had ruptured again and blood was running down Quasimodo's face.
"Stop it ..." I said, took a handkerchief and pressed it onto the bleeding wound.
Quasimodo growled and shook his head. He didn't want me to stop him.
"Stop hurting yourself ..." I pleaded and started sobbing.
