As Frollo fell asleep, he wondered, is she warm tonight?
Notre Dame housed those who had no place else to turn, offering them any food and linens that were available. Frollo would have ripped the blankets and food away from every Parisian if it meant ensuring the girl was warm and cared for.
She was most definitely younger than him, although it was hard to pinpoint her exact age. There was the experience of 100 years in her eyes and yet judging by her smooth skin she couldn't have been older than 30. If she was ordinary, she would either already be married or searching for a husband. Someone who could give her children. She was young, healthy enough to run after small ones.
Quasimodo was grown, but still functioned like a child in many ways. Perhaps Frollo's life wasn't so different than it could have been after all.
Esmeralda's death would be the only thing that would erase the hope that she could ever want Frollo as much as her eyes had promised.
He pressed his face into his pillow, imagining it was her breast. He dreamed of her:
Twirling, bouncing, lithe and supple. A skin-tight dress, dangerously low over her bust, hugging her rear. The outline of every curve swollen into perfect symmetry, receding down into dark valleys, barely hidden. The edge of her dress floats with every graceful lift of her endless legs. The wind dances with her and her hair—her hair—