Veronica had little doubt but that her invitation would be accepted by
the Della Spina. Had she been as worldly wise, as she was practical in
most things, she would have had no doubts at all, though she would have
hesitated long before writing to the Duchessa. For, of two things, one
or the other must happen. Gianluca must either die, or not die; in the
first case the least which his family could do would be to give him the
opportunity of seeing the woman he loved, before his death, and, in the
second, such an invitation on Veronica's part was almost equivalent to
consenting to marry him if he recovered. To every one except Veronica
herself, the marriage would have seemed in every way as desirable as any
that could be proposed to her, both for herself and for Gianluca.
Her invitation was received with mingled astonishment and delight and
was duly communicated to Gianluca himself. Veronica had written to him
at the same time, and he had already read her letter telling him of her
plan, when his father and mother entered the room where he was lying
near his open window, towards evening. They were good people, and
simple, according to their lights, and they were devotedly attached to
their eldest son. The love of Italians for their children often goes to
lengths which would amaze northern people. It may be that where there
are few love-matches, as in the old Italian society, the natural ties of
blood are stronger than in countries where men leave everything for the
women they love.
The Duchessa's chief preoccupation and anxiety concerned her son's
strength to bear the journey. From day to day the family had been on the
point of moving to Avellino, and the departure had been put off because
Gianluca's condition seemed altogether too precarious. It would be an
even more serious matter to convey him safely to Muro; and between her
extreme anxiety for his health, and her wish that he might be able to
go, the Duchessa was almost distracted. But neither she nor her husband
knew that the doctors despaired of his life. The truth had been kept
from them, and Taquisara had extracted it from one of the physicians
with considerable difficulty, having more than half guessed it during
the past two months.
At the mere suggestion of going to Muro, Gianluca had revived, reading
Veronica's letter alone to himself in his room. When he heard that the
invitation had actually come, he seemed suddenly so much better that
the tears started to the old Duca's weak eyes.
"We must go," said the old gentleman to his wife, as they left Gianluca
to consult together. "What is the use of denying it? It is passion. If
he does not marry that girl, he will die of it."
"Of course she means to marry him," answered the Duchessa, her voice
tremulous with nervous delight. "It is not imaginable that she should
ask us to visit her, unless she means that she has changed her mind! It
would be an outrage--an insult--it would be nothing short of an
abominable action--I would strangle her with these hands!"
The prematurely old woman shook her weak fingers in the air, and her
passionate love for her son lent her feeble features the momentary
dignity of righteous anger.
"I should hardly doubt that she would marry him after this," said the
Duca, thoughtfully. "And besides--where could she find a better husband?
It is passion that has made him ill."
But it was not. In what they said of Veronica's probable intention they
were not altogether wrong, however, from their point of view. They were
in complete ignorance of the long-continued correspondence between her
and Gianluca, and had they known of it, they could not possibly have
understood her way of looking at the matter. Such a character as hers
was altogether beyond their comprehension, and they practically knew
nothing of the circumstances that had lately developed it so quickly. As
for her mode of life, they believed, as most people did, that she had a
companion in the person of an elderly gentlewoman whom she had chosen
for the purpose among her distant relations.
Even Taquisara thought substantially as they did, and he was a man
singularly regardless of conventions. It was true that he was almost as
ignorant of the state of affairs as Gianluca's father and mother. After
the first exchange of letters Gianluca had grown suddenly reticent. So
long as Veronica had seemed altogether beyond his reach he had not
hesitated to confide in the brave and honourable man who was such a
devoted friend to him; but as soon as he began to feel himself growing
intimate with Veronica, he ceased to speak of her except in general
terms. Taquisara, if he had ever felt the need of confidence, would have
stopped at the same point, or earlier, and he understood, and did not
press Gianluca with questions. The latter had said that from time to
time Donna Veronica had been kind enough to write to him--but that was
all, and he never said it again. When the Sicilian heard of the
invitation to Muro, however, he felt that he had a right to express
himself, since the matter was an open one and concerned the whole
family. He felt, too, an immense satisfaction in having produced so
great a result by his letter.
He had written to Veronica what the doctor had told him about the
general verdict after the last consultation. For himself, his faith in
doctors was not by any means blind, and he was not without some hope
that Gianluca might recover. At all events, it was his duty to cheer the
man as far as he could, and he imagined nothing more likely to produce a
good effect than the now reasonable suggestion that Veronica might
possibly change her mind.
"Of course," he said to Gianluca, "the whole situation is extraordinary
beyond anything I ever knew. But since Donna Veronica has left her aunt,
no one can dispute her right to do as she pleases. An invitation to you
and your family means a reopening of the question of the marriage. There
can be no doubt of that. In my opinion, she has reconsidered the matter
and means to accept you, after all."
Gianluca smiled, and his sunken eyes brightened. But he would not admit
that he really had any hopes.
"I wish I were as sanguine as you," he answered.
"If you had my temperament, you would not be where you are, my dear
friend," replied Taquisara, with a dry laugh. "I look at the world
differently. My life may not be worth much, but it is mine, and I would
not let a man take it from me with his hands, nor a woman with her
eyes--without fighting for it, if I had the chance."
"How can a man fight against a woman?" laughed Gianluca, for he was very
happy.
"You fight a man by facing him, and a woman by turning your back on
her," said Taquisara. "There are more women in the world than there are
men to love them, after all. For one that will not have you, there are
three who will. Take one of the three."
"What do you know about it? You always say that you were never really in
love. How can you tell what you would do?"
"I suppose I cannot be quite sure. But then--the thing is ridiculous! A
man must be half a poet, he must have sensibilities, ideals, visions, a
nervous heart, an exaggerating eye and a mind sensitized like a
photographer's plate to receive impressions! Do you see me provided with
all that stuff?"
He laughed again, somewhat intentionally, for he meant to amuse
Gianluca.
"Nor myself either," answered the latter. "I am much simpler than you
imagine."
"Are you? So much the better. But it makes very little difference, since
you are to be happy, after all. Seriously, I do not believe that this
invitation can mean anything else. If it does--if she is not in
earnest--" he checked himself.
Gianluca looked at him and did not understand his expression.
"What were you going to say?" asked the younger man, with some
curiosity.
"Then take one of the other three!" said Taquisara, roughly, and he rose
from his seat and walked to the window.
The Duchessa's answer to Veronica was dignified and friendly. After
expressing her cordial thanks for the invitation, she went on to say
that besides the pleasure it would give her and her son to spend a few
days under Veronica's hospitable roof, she was too well acquainted by
hearsay with the splendid climate and situation of Muro to refuse an
offer, by accepting which she might contribute much to Gianluca's
recovery, and she went on to speak of the high mountain air and the
sunshine of the Basilicata. There was truth in what she said, of course,
and she was too proud not to make the most of it, entirely passing over
more personal matters in order to give it the greatest possible
prominence. As for Taquisara, though she guessed that he was almost
indispensable to Gianluca in Naples, she made no mention of him. It
would have been easy for her to suggest that he also might be invited,
but she suspected that her son could do without him well enough when
privileged to see Veronica every day; moreover, he would be in the way,
and would probably himself fall in love with his young hostess, who, in
her turn, might take a sudden fancy to the handsome Sicilian.
It was not until the things which Veronica hastily ordered from Naples
arrived in huge carts from Eboli that she began to reflect seriously
upon what she had done under a sudden impulse. The Duchessa wrote that
she should require four or five days to reach Muro, by easy stages, and
there was plenty of time to make preparations for receiving the party.
After the letter had come, Veronica spoke to Don Teodoro, who had
noticed her extreme preoccupation and was wondering what could have
happened.
"I think I understand," he said, looking at her quietly. "It is
right--you are young, but the years pass very quickly."
"What do you mean?" asked Veronica, whose sad face still puzzled him.
"What can their coming mean?" he asked, in reply, with a smile.
"What? It is I who do not understand--or you--or both of us. Don
Gianluca and I are friends. He is very, very ill. The doctors say that
he cannot live many months, and unless I see him now, I shall never see
him again."
The old priest gazed at her in distressed surprise, and for a long time
he found nothing to say. Veronica remained silent, scarcely conscious of
his presence, leaning back in her chair, with folded hands and sorrowful
eyes. The thought that Gianluca was to die was becoming more and more
unceasingly painful, day by day. The fact that he wrote regularly to
her, and yet never spoke of his condition, made it worse; for it proved
to her that he could be brave rather than knowingly increase her
anxiety, and the suffering of a brave man gets more true sympathy from
women than the cruel death of many cowards.
"I think you are very rash," said Don Teodoro, gravely, breaking the
silence at last.
Veronica turned upon him instantly, with wide and gleaming eyes, amazed
at the slightest sign of opposition, criticism, or advice.
"Rash!" she exclaimed. "Why? Have I not the right to ask whom I please,
and will, to stay under my own roof? Who has authority over me, to say
that I shall have this one for a friend, or that one, old or young? Am I
a free woman, or a schoolgirl, or a puppet doll, to which the world can
tie strings to make me dance to its silly music? Rash! What rashness is
there in asking my friend and his father and mother here? My dear Don
Teodoro, you will be telling me before long that I should take some
broken-down old lady for a companion!"
"I have sometimes wondered that you do not send for one of your
relations," said the priest, who, mild as he was, could not easily be
daunted when he believed himself right.
"I will make my house a refuge, or a hospital if need be, for our poor
people," answered Veronica, "but not for my relations, whom I have never
seen. I send them money sometimes, but they shall not come here to beg.
That would be too much. I had enough of those I knew. I am willing to
feed anything that needs food except vultures. I have chosen to live
alone, and alone I will live. The world may scream itself mad and crack
with horror at my doings, if it is so sensitive. It cannot hurt me, and
if I choose to shut my gates, it cannot get in. Besides, they are
coming, the Duca, the Duchessa, and Don Gianluca, and that ends the
matter."
"Nevertheless--" began Don Teodoro, still obstinately unwilling to
retract his word.
"Dear friend," interrupted Veronica, with sudden gentleness, for she was
fond of him, "I like you very much. I respect you immensely. I could not
do half I am doing without you. But you do not quite understand me. I am
sorry that you should think me rash, if the idea of rashness is
unpleasant to you--I will make any other concession in reason rather
than quarrel with you. But please do not argue with me when I have made
up my mind. I am quite sure that I shall have my own way in the end,
and when the end comes, you will be very glad that you could not hinder
me, because I am altogether right. Now we understand each other, do we
not?"
Don Teodoro could not help smiling in a hopeless sort of way, and he
lifted his hands a moment, spreading out the palms as though to express
that he cleared his conscience of all possible responsibility. So they
parted good friends, without further words.
But when Veronica was alone, she began to realize that Don Teodoro was
not so altogether in the wrong as she believed herself to be in the
right. People might certainly be found whom she could not class with the
world she so frankly despised, and who would say that if Gianluca
recovered she should marry him, after extending such an invitation to
him and his people, and that, if she did not, she would deserve to be
called a heartless flirt--from their point of view. Gianluca's father
and mother might say so.
He himself, at least, must know her better than that, she thought. And
then, there was the terrible earnestness of Taquisara's letter, the
sober statement of his best friend, next to herself, and a statement
which it must have cost the man something to make, since it was
necessarily accompanied by an apology. After all, though he had
insulted her, she liked Taquisara for the whole-hearted way in which he
took Gianluca's part in everything. There was that statement, and she
felt that it was a true one. Gianluca was more to her than any one she
knew, in a way which no one could understand, and she had a right to see
him before he died. If, by any happy chance, he should live, people
might perhaps talk. She should not care, for she should have done right.
That was the way in which she accounted to herself for her action; but
the consciousness that Don Teodoro was not quite wrong was there. She
remembered it afterwards, when the fatality that was quietly lying in
wait for her raised its head from ambush and stared her in the face. But
then, at the first beginning, she was angry with the old priest for
trying to oppose her.
There was not more than time to finish the preparations, after all, for
she received a note from the Duchessa, written from Eboli, saying that
they would arrive a day earlier than they had expected, as the heat in
the plain was intense, and they were anxious to get Gianluca to a cooler
region of the mountains as soon as possible. Veronica had written, too,
placing the castle at Laviano at their disposal, as a resting-place, so
as to break the journey more easily for the invalid, and she sent men
over to see that all was in order and to take a few necessary things for
the guests.
It was a sort of caravan that at last halted before the fountain of
Muro, at the entrance to the village. Veronica had been warned of their
near approach, and was there to meet them, with Don Teodoro by her side.
First came the Duca and Duchessa together in a huge carriage drawn by
four horses, with three servants, two men and a maid. Veronica could not
see past the vehicle, as it blocked the way, and she stopped beside it
to greet the couple.
"My dear child!" cried the Duchessa. "We shall never forget your
kindness, and all the trouble you have taken! Gianluca is in the next
carriage. I think you have saved his life!"
There was a sort of inoffensive motherliness in her tone which surprised
Veronica--a suggestion of possession that irritated her. But she smiled,
said a few words, and ordered the carriage to move on,--an operation
which, though difficult in such a narrow way, was possible since she had
improved and paved the streets. A couple of her men walked before the
horses to clear the way of the women and children and the few men who
were not away at work, for the news of the arrival had spread, and the
people flocked together to see whether the visitors would bear
comparison with their princess.
As the carriage rolled into the street, Veronica went up to meet the
next. It was a very long landau, and in it Gianluca was almost lying
down, his pale face and golden beard in strong relief against a dark
brown silk cushion. To Veronica's amazement, Taquisara sat beside him,
calmly smoking one of those long black cigars which he preferred to all
others. He threw it away, when he saw her. She shook hands frankly with
Gianluca.
"I am very glad you are here," she said kindly and cheerfully. "You will
get well here. How do you do?" she added, turning to Taquisara as
naturally as though she had expected him, for she supposed that there
must have been some misunderstanding.
He explained his coming in a few words, before Gianluca could finish the
sentence he began.
"He hates strangers," he said, "and I came up with him, to be of use on
the journey. I am going back at once."
"You will not go back this evening, at all events," answered Veronica,
with a little hospitable smile.
She was grateful to him for Gianluca's sake, both for his letter and for
having accompanied his friend. For what had gone before, he had
apologized and was forgiven.
"I beg your pardon," he answered. "I think I shall be obliged to go back
this afternoon."
"Has he any engagement that obliges him to return?" asked Veronica of
Gianluca.
As she turned to him, she met his deep blue eyes, fixed on her face
with a strange look, half happy, half hungry, half appealing.
"He has no engagement that I know of," he answered.
"Then you will stay," she said to Taquisara. "Go on!" she added to the
coachman, without giving time for any further answer.
There was a note in her short speech which the Sicilian had never heard
before then. It was the tone of command--not of the drill-sergeant, but
of the conqueror. He almost laughed to himself as the carriage moved
slowly on, while Veronica and Don Teodoro followed on foot.
"You must stay, if she wishes it," said Gianluca, in a low voice.
"I am not used to being ordered to quarters in that way," answered
Taquisara, smiling in genuine amusement. "I can be of no more use to you
when I have got you up to your room, and I think I shall go back as I
intended."
"I would not, if I were you. After all, it is a hospitable invitation,
and you cannot invent any reasonable excuse for refusing to stay at
least one night. The horses are worn out, too. You have no pretext."
"Perhaps not. I will see."
The carriages moved at a foot pace. As Veronica walked along she nodded
and spoke to many of the poor people, who drew back into their doors
from the narrow way. Behind her came two more carriages laden with
luggage, and one of her own men on horseback closed the procession. By
urging his stout beast up all the short cuts, he had accomplished the
feat of keeping up with the vehicles.
When they reached the castle gate, the Della Spina's two men-servants
jumped down and got a sort of sedan chair from amongst the luggage, but
Gianluca would not have it.
"I can walk to-day," he said. "Help me, Taquisara. Have you got my
stick? Thank you. No, do not lift me. Let me get out alone! I am sure
that I can do it."
Pale as he was, he blushed with annoyance at his feeble state, when he
saw Veronica's anxious eyes watching his movements.
It was early yet, but the August sun sank behind the lofty heights to
westward, as he set his foot upon the ground. Taquisara's arm was around
him, and the Sicilian's face was quiet and unconcerned, but Veronica saw
the straining of the brown hand that supported the tall invalid, and she
knew that Gianluca could not have stood alone. But he would not let the
servants come near him. The old Duca and his wife touched his sleeve and
asked him nervous, futile questions, and begged him to allow himself to
be carried. Veronica stood in front, ready to lead the way.
"No, no!" exclaimed Gianluca, answering his mother. "You see. I can walk
very well to-day, with scarcely any help."
But his first step was unsteady, and the next was slow. Veronica heard
the uncertain footfall on the flagstones and turned again.
"Will you take my arm on this side?" she asked gently, placing herself
on his right, away from Taquisara.
He hesitated, smiled, and then laid his hand upon her arm, and she and
Taquisara led him in together, the old couple following, and looking at
each other in silence from time to time. Through the dark, inclined way,
they all went up slowly into the courtyard and under the low door, dark
even on that summer's afternoon, slowly, stopping at every dozen paces
and then moving on again. Taquisara almost carrying his friend with his
right arm, while Veronica steadied him on the other side, till they came
out at last into a room which had been furnished as a sort of
sitting-room and library, especially for Gianluca's use. He sank down
into a deep chair facing the window, and drew breath, as he sought
Veronica's eyes.
"You are very kind," he said faintly. "But you see how much better I
am," he added at once, in a more cheerful tone. "It is the first walk I
have taken for several days, Donna Veronica. I have really been ill, you
know."
"I know you have," she said, and she turned quickly away, for she felt
more than she cared to show just then.
Possibly the Duca and his wife were too much preoccupied about their
son's condition to think seriously of what was taking place, but it was
strange enough in its way, and Taquisara thought so as he looked on, and
wondered what Neapolitan society would think if it could stand, as one
man, in his place, and see with his eyes, knowing what he knew. But he
had not much time for reflexion. Veronica's women had brought Gianluca
wine, and his mother was giving him certain drops of a stimulant in a
glass of fragrant old malvoisie, while his father bent over him
anxiously, still asking useless questions. Veronica beckoned Taquisara
aside, and they stood together behind Gianluca's chair.
"That is his bedroom," she said, pointing to one of the doors, "and that
is yours," she added, pointing to one opposite.
"Mine? But you did not expect me--"
"I naturally supposed that he would have a man with him, to take care of
him," she answered. "If you are really his friend as you say you are,
stay with him. You see that he cannot get about without you. If either
of you need anything, ask for it," she added, before he could reply.
"I would rather not stay," said Taquisara, looking gravely into her
face.
"Have you a good reason? What is it?" Her features hardened a little.
"I cannot tell you my reason. It concerns myself."
"Then try and forget yourself, for you are needed here," she answered
almost sternly.
For two or three seconds they looked into each other's eyes, neither
yielding. Then Taquisara gave way.
"I will stay," he said shortly, and he turned his face from her with a
sort of effort. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked, looking towards the
group of persons who stood around Gianluca.
"Yes--a good one, whom I have lately brought. Shall I send for him? Do
you think he is worse?" She asked the question anxiously.
"No. No doctors can do him any good--but if he should be suddenly worse,
after the long journey--"
"Do you think it is likely?" asked Veronica, interrupting him in a tone
of increasing anxiety.
He turned to her again, and watched her face, curiously, wondering
whether she loved the man, after all.
"I hope not," he answered quietly. "But it was a fatiguing drive, and he
hardly slept at all last night. I suppose that the excitement kept him
awake. He should rest as soon as possible."
"Very well," said Veronica. "I will take his father and mother away and
give them tea. Stay with him and make him lie down and sleep, if
possible. Dinner is at half-past seven. Let me know if we are to wait
for him."
She went to Gianluca's side and spoke to the Duchessa.
"Shall I show you your rooms?" she asked. "Then we can have tea. Don
Gianluca must be tired, and he should have quiet and rest before
dinner--or if he prefers it, we will not expect him to-night. Sleep
first, and decide afterwards," she added, addressing Gianluca himself,
and her tone grew suddenly gentle as she spoke to him.
"You are very wise for your age, my dear child!" answered the Duchessa,
in the motherly tone that irritated Veronica.
The old gentleman nodded gravely, being quite too much preoccupied and
surprised to judge at all of his hostess's wisdom, but delighted with
the effect which the change of air seemed already to have produced upon
Gianluca.
They went away together, leaving the invalid with Taquisara and his own
servant. Veronica led them to her favourite room, then showed them their
own, and went back to wait for them, while Elettra brought the tea, just
as she had done of old in the Palazzo Macomer. Veronica watched her
while she was arranging the tea-table. Elettra, who rarely spoke
unbidden, ventured to make a remark.
"Their Excellencies will be surprised at being waited on by women," she
said; for though she hated all men-servants, she had pride for the great
old house her fathers had served.
"They will be surprised at so many things that they will not notice it,"
answered her mistress, thoughtfully.
Elettra glanced at her quickly, but said nothing and went away, leaving
her alone. She sat quite still, and did not move until the old couple
came back, ten minutes later. She moved chairs forward for them to sit
in, and poured out a cup of tea for each. Meanwhile they all three made
little idle observations about the weather and the place.
The Duchessa, holding her cup in her hand, looked at the door from time
to time, as though expecting some one to come in. At last she could
contain her curiosity no longer.
"And where is your companion, my dear?" she asked suddenly.
"In the imagination of society, Duchessa," answered Veronica. "I have
none. I live alone."
The Duchessa almost dropped her cup.
"Alone?" she cried, in amazement. "You live alone? In such a place as
this!" She could not believe her ears.
"Yes," said Veronica, smiling. "Does it seem so very terrible to you? I
live alone--and I am waited on only by women. I daresay that surprises
you, too."
"Alone?" The Duca had got his breath, and sat open-mouthed, holding his
tea-cup low between his knees, in both hands. "Alone! At your age! A
young girl! But the world--society? What will it think?"
"Unless it thinks as I do, I do not care to know," answered Veronica,
indifferently. "Let me give you some bread and butter, Duca."
"Bread and butter? No--no thank you--no--I--I am very much astonished! I
am stupefied! It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!"
"Of course everybody thinks that you have an elderly companion--" chimed
in the Duchessa.
"One of your Spanish relations," said the Duca, with anxious eyes.
"Surely, she was here--"
"And is away just now," suggested his wife. "That accounts for--"
"Not at all," said Veronica, almost laughing. "She never existed. I came
here alone, I live here alone, and I mean to live here alone as long as
I please. The world may say what it pleases. I shall be three-and-twenty
years of age on my next birthday. Ask Don Teodoro whether I am not able
to take care of myself--and of Muro, too, for that matter!"
"Who is Don Teodoro?" asked the Duchessa, nervously, and still
altogether horrified.
"The parish priest," said Veronica. "A very learned and charitable old
man. He dines with me every evening."
"Then," replied the Duchessa, with a beginning of relief, "then you, and
your good priest, and your woman, make a sort of--of what shall I say--a
sort of little religious community here? Is that it?"
"We are not irreligious," Veronica replied, still at the point of
laughter. "Most of us hear mass every morning--the church is close by
the gate, on the other side of the great tower, you know--and we do not
eat meat on fast days--"
"Yes, yes, I understand!" interrupted the Duchessa, grasping at any
straw by which she could drag the extraordinary young princess within
conceivable distance of what she herself considered socially proper.
"And you spend your time in good works, in the village, of course, and
in edifying conversation with Don Teodoro. Yes--I see! As you put it at
first, it was a little startling, but I understand it better now. You
understand it, Pompeo, do you not? It is quite clear, now."
The Duca rejoiced in the baptismal name of Pompey, like many of his
class in the south, whereas the name of Caesar is more common about
Rome.
"I have at least done something for the village," said Veronica. "It was
in a bad state when I came here."
"It is a very clean village," observed the Duca, whose eyes still had a
puzzled look in them, though his jaw had slowly recovered from its fall
of amazement. "I saw no pigs in the streets. One generally sees a great
many pigs in these mountain towns."
"I turned them out," said Veronica.
She went on to give a little account of the improvements she had
introduced, not in vanity, but to keep them from returning to the
subject of her living alone. They listened with profound interest, and
with almost as much astonishment as they had shown at first.
"But do you find no opposition here?" asked the Duca. "You seem to do
just as you please."
"Of course," answered Veronica. "The place belongs to me. Why should I
not do as I like? There are a few tolerably well-to-do people here, who
own a little property. Everything I do is to their advantage as well as
to that of the poor peasants, so that they all side with me. No," she
concluded thoughtfully, "I do not think that any one would oppose me in
Muro. But if any one should, I have decided what to do!"
"And what should you do?" asked the Duchessa, rather nervously.
"I should send the whole family to America, with a little money in
their pockets. They are always glad to emigrate, and the opposition
would be quite out of the way in the Argentine Republic." Veronica
laughed quietly.
When the Duca and his wife went to dress for dinner they had some very
disturbing ideas concerning the character of the young Princess of
Acireale.