The King’s Irish Girl
The story of Marie-Louise O'Murphy
©Patrick McDonnell
Casanova writes from his Bohemian library that he discovered her, like his boast of fornication with every woman in Christendom, what a lie! I knew her well because I took care of her for the King Louis the fifteenth. She arrived as a young, un-lettered, filthy whore’s daughter who I had to put into some kind of state to receive the King’s lance. As it turned out he liked her rough ways, the outbursts of cursing like a sailor, and her sly means of making love. If only she had listened to me. Me, the Mistress of the Parc-aux-Cerfs. Moi, they call the petite demoiselle who has the keys to the King’s petite mistresses. It wasn’t the harem they accused him of hoarding, but one at a time - Madam de Pompidour was wise to enforce that order. Of course you have heard of the four sisters who were his lovers - but not at the same time - Louise, Pauline, Diane and Marie de Mailly. Mind you, I have arranged for parties of women to come to him, when he was younger, and in full form, but those days are over. There is always Miss Fish, as I call her, Madame de Pompadour who has lasted the longest because she had more between her ears than between her legs - as they say. She is the real mistress of the Parc des Cerfs. When she died the King closed us down. Now Jeanne Bécu, the comtess du Barry, is the last one to love the king. At least she knows how to bath once a day. Something I have tried to impose on the other girls with varying success. I had their nether parts shaved so the nits wouldn’t bite the King.
It was that 'near do well’ painter François Boucher, or the butcher as I called him, who discovered the Irish girl. Le Bel, the first chamber servant, or valet-de-chambres of the King, didn’t find her. God knows what hovel she was lodged in, with her mother and sisters whoremongering. Though she cleaned up well - at 14 - to be a good model. I always thought Boucher was a back-door lover, as he always chose the poses that showed the ladies’s derrieres, I won’t go into the details. It involved the use of olive oil and a lot of wine.
The poor girl arrived on my doorstep, half frightened and half feral. She did have what the King wanted in a woman; she was voluptuous but not too much, and she was young looking at 14 years old (or maybe 16). Although she smelled of the swine heard. That I took care of first, putting her in a bath, which she as first hated but learned how to enjoy, with sweet smelling oils. Her hair had hay seeds in it, literally, as she was sleeping in a loft with the pigs. She was afraid to sleep in a bed the first night, preferring the floor, but I put an end to that, and she soon luxuriated in the silk sheets and feather mattresses. She seemed to know what she was here for, having observed at close quarters her mother and sisters receive clients. She had no ‘panache’ at first. I had to teach her that, and some of the whiles of seduction. I showed her how to suck the skin off a cucumber. She wanted to jump on the King, as if he was a goat herder, and she would stick her bum out like an animal. Oh goodness that had to stop. I think the king like having the model for her painting, a real life painting. She didn’t mind being censored. I think that was the only way they had kept her a virgin intact in their house of ill repute.
Madam de Pompidour had to exam her from head to foot - in the nude - to look in every hole and crevice to make sure she wasn’t diseased. If the King hadn’t insisted, she would have thrown her back, after seeing the Boucher painting his lust was aroused and ‘nobless oblige’. He could, in theory, have any woman in the realm but there were limits and he had to respect the proprieties. Like all men he wanted all women, and in his case, the women were obliged to consent. Yet the King liked his women docile and willing. In my years of working for him I never saw him take a woman by force. Maybe they were tipsy and had too much to drink, but they came willingly to his bed chamber. Did they have a choice? That or the nunnery…
We had to figure out a way of keeping this new girl childless. She didn’t want any pessary made from gum of Arabic and alum. It wasn’t surprising that the King got her with child. He enjoyed the way women filled out during pregnancy, and didn’t have to stop for any bloody mess each month. I had to insist that he desist in her later months of pregnancy though the hussy wanted to continue, saying her lust was greater. Then she had the miscarriage and almost died. The King was touched by her sacrifice, saying she had almost died for him. I think she provoked it with a kitting needle. Then we found some herbs that did the trick. She would drink the Queen Ann’s lace tea.
The first time she made love was a real production, with fanfare and lute playing; everything a young girl dreams about, instead of a second of pain and lots of blood - there was that too - and she wept in his arms afterwards. All a ruse to seduce him that we had we had concocted beforehand. She was a good actress. It was in my interest as well, because I didn’t want to begin again with another girl. Now came the hard part - keeping the King’s interest.
Over the years I had kept a secret ledger of the King’s performance. Yes I know it is a state secret but if the king’s chamberlain can look at his night soil each morning, then the King’s Mistress of the Parc-aux-Cerfs can keep score! At first he was a staggering bull of a man, covering his heifers three or more times a night. Lately he has been often absent, or his one eyed monk has Benn asleep, lolling round like a drunken sailor. Ah men, they rate themselves according to how stiff it gets and how long it lasts while a woman can have as many lovers as her ‘quim' can take, and then she has other orifices to fill. I remember once when the king had won some battle or other, and had come to the Parc-aux-Cerfs to meet with Madame de Pompidour. For the whole night he kept drilling her, until I thought the lady would be wounded deeply, but she finally told him her monthly flow had come, and that put an end to that. 10 times he came! She had to take a long bath with sea salt to calm her nether regions which had been most badly assaulted. Truth told she was up the next day and had the stable boy for breakfast!
The Irish girl had many tricks as well, having studied in her family’s trade. She was limber enough to put her legs behind her head and supple enough to eat her own ‘quim’ so she could put herself in all sorts of positions, that amused the king, and got his sceptre up. He never failed to produce with her, and I had to change beddings often because she was as saucy as him. She was also creative in her presentations, often dressing as a boy, to stimulate his highness. I wonder if the king would have liked to have been found dressing as a woman?
She got above herself, asking questions of the King, that shouldn’t have been asked. Madame de Pompadour got wind of it and put a kibosh one it. The Irish girl was married off to a soldier who died in service. She ended up as Marie-Louise Morphy de Boisfailly - rather well for someone who started working on her back. I do remember her crying at night in her bed, hugging a rag doll that she had been given by her Irish grandmother. She would repeat over and over, “Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid”.
©Patrick McDonnell
