The Marquis de Courtornieu idolized his daughter.

Everyone spoke of that as an incontestable and uncontested fact.
When persons spoke to him of his daughter, they always said: "You, who adore your daughter----" And when he spoke of himself, _he_ said: "I who adore Blanche." The truth was, that he would have given a good deal, even a third of his fortune, to be rid of her.
This smiling young girl, who seemed such an artless child, had gained an absolute control over him.

She forced him to bow like a reed to her every caprice--and Heaven knows she had enough of them! In the hope of making his escape, he had thrown her Aunt Medea; but in less than three months that poor woman had been completely subjugated, and did not serve to divert his daughter's attention from him, even for a moment.
Sometimes the marquis revolted, but nine times out of ten he paid dearly for his attempts at rebellion.

When Mlle.

Blanche turned her cold and steel-like eyes upon him with a certain peculiar expression, his courage evaporated.