BORKMAN. [With suppressed fury.] And then treachery overtook me! Just at the critical moment! [Looking at him.] Do you know what I hold to be the most infamous crime a man can be guilty of?
FOLDAL.
No, tell me.
BORKMAN. It is not murder. It is not robbery or house-breaking. It is not even perjury. For all these things people do to those they hate, or who are indifferent to them, and do not matter.
FOLDAL.
What is the worst of all then, John Gabriel?
BORKMAN. [With emphasis.] The most infamous of crimes is a friend's betrayal of his friend's confidence.
FOLDAL.
[Somewhat doubtfully.] Yes, but you know——
BORKMAN. [Firing up.] What are you going to say? I see it in your face. But it is of no use. The people who had their securities in the bank should have got them all back again—every farthing. No; I tell you the most infamous crime a man can commit is to misuse a friend's letters; to publish to all the world what has been confided to him alone, in the closest secrecy, like a whisper in an empty, dark, double-locked room. The man who can do such things is infected and poisoned in every fibre with the morals of the higher rascality. And such a friend was mine—and it was he who crushed me.
FOLDAL.
I can guess whom you mean.
BORKMAN. There was not a nook or cranny of my life that I hesitated to lay open to him. And then, when the moment came, he turned against me the weapons I myself had placed in his hands.
FOLDAL. I have never been able to understand why he—— Of course, there were whispers of all sorts at the time.