So the next day he set out for Vienna, nor did he conceal the purport of his journey. For he had to induce the Emperor to remove the Szent-Endre authorities and order a new municipal body to be set up in their place. As a land-owner, he had full right to demand this to be done.
Meanwhile, he left Böske to keep house, only stipulating she should have someone to be with her in his absence.
In Vienna all fell out as he had wished, and after forwarding his plans there, he returned home.
As he reached the gate of the town he wondered what new developments would greet his return; he had a foreboding something strange was preparing, nor was he mistaken.
For when he came to his own house, there outside sat Böske in tears, surrounded by various bits of furniture, which had evidently been thrown out into the street.
"Why, what in the world have you got there?" asked Ráby, amazed, of the weeping maid-servant.
"What have I got?" cried Böske, "why, honoured master, don't you know your own furniture when you see it? These are all our things, and they have turned them out here, and me with them."
"What?" yelled Ráby, as he leapt from the coach.
But no answer was needed, for just then the door opened, and out came the notary.
He leaned with the utmost sang-froid against the door, while he filled with tobacco his clay pipe, from which he proceeded to puff eddies of smoke right into Ráby's face. He was quite drunk, and behind him stood a couple of boon companions.