Monsieur Proust's opal

There probably isn't a single soul in the world who has not lost something, perhaps inexplicably, and then found it again, perhaps equally inexplicably.
To find the object, many people resort to St. Anthony of Padua, or to St. Francis of Assisi, or to some other method.
You can read more about it here, in our sister blog. This posting is no speculation on the mysterious ways of wayward objects. It is simply a re-posting of a beautiful little event, told by Celeste Albaret, Marcel Proust's housekeeper, at the very end of her unforgettably beautiful book.

One night when I was with M. Proust at boulevard Haussman he was showing me some things he'd asked me to fetch from the chest, including some pretty pendant earrings made of coral which used to belong to his mother.

"I think they would suit my niece Suzy," he said. "Put them away, Celeste."
Then, when I came back: "Ah, here is my opal tie pin. Unfortunately I stepped on it and broke it. A pity. But the opal is all right and very pretty. Would you like it? Take it."

I had it mounted as a ring, and it never left my finger. Later, much later, I wanted to give it to Odile, but she was afraid that she might lose it and, knowing how fond I was of it, preferred I keep it. I wore it night and day. Then one day I lost it. In despair I did what my mother used to do and prayed to St. Anthony. Mother used to say he always helped her find things. But nothing happened.

 
That same day my daughter had brought in some greens which I picked over and washed, cooked and chopped up. While we were at the table - Odile, my sister Marie, and I - Odile suddenly stopped eating.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Did you break a tooth?"
It was M. Proust's opal.
He hadn't forgotten me any more than I could forget him.
 

Translated by Barbara Bray