Of the things Constance Bonacieux is expecting that morning, opening the door to have a complete stranger fall inwards with it is not one of them. She stands, frozen with shock, as he mutters something incomprehensible into her foot. The stench of alcohol and the taproom is unmistakable.
"Hello?" she calls as loudly as she dares – she can only imagine the gossip were any of the neighbours to hear and come to look. "You need to get up," she informs him matter-of-factly, crossing her arms. "You can't sleep here."
To emphasise her position, she steps back and allows the stranger's head to fall with a 'thunk' onto the floorboards. He does not seem to mind.
"Right," she says to herself, and marches upstairs to where the water basin still awaits emptying. Returning, she stands over him and says in her sternest voice, "My husband will be here at any moment." Jacques, in fact, will not. "This is a place of business. Get up!"
The man grumbles but remains unmoving.
"Fine." And she dumps the water out.
He comes awake cursing her with the most clearly enunciated expletives she has ever heard. The sight of him, looking at her with murder in his eyes, hair plastered to his pale face, and dripping balefully should certainly not make her want to laugh.
"You have to go."
"I-" he pauses, swallowing a belch. Possibly more. "Madame," he begins, schooling his face into neutrality with some difficulty. "Might I trouble you for a towel?"