Imagery haunts Claude Frollo even as he escapes the city’s grip in Book 9, Chapter 1. The archdeacon pauses along the banks of his lake, where the view of a calm shoreline offers a sight for sore eyes:
The left bank of the Seine, on which his gaze was fixed, projected its dark mass between these two whitenesses and tapered away into the distance like a black arrow, until it was lost in the mists of the horizon. It was covered in houses, of which only the dark silhouettes could be seen, standing sharply out in black against the light background of the sky and the water.
Hugo captures a moment of scenic beauty. The bank—jutting “like a black arrow” and stretching out into the misty horizon—should be enough to stun any casual viewer. But the scene is more memorable for what Claude Frollo ultimately does to it than any vista that it offers. The horizontal riverbank suddenly begins to tilt, becoming a “huge black obelisk” like a dark cathedral spire. The homes and chimneys stud the sides of this “Tower of Babel” and twinkle ominously across the “jagged, dense, and fantastic […] belltower of hell.” It is as warped as it is creative—the novel introduces the reader to a perspective of the world that has been literally turned onto its side and acquires the qualities of a fever dream. Murder-maddened and guilty, Claude Frollo sees burning furnaces on nightmarish towers and wades ever deeper into the realm of hallucination. Caught in the hell of his own making, the priest may be able to outrun the worldly consequences of his cruel envy but cannot escape his conscience.