A sort of intoxication mounted to his brain.

Everywhere were cries of joy and astonishment.

All these louis-d'or fell, as if by a miracle, into the poor hands accustomed to receive little pieces of silver.

The Curb was guilty of follies, actual follies.

He was out of bounds; he did not recognize himself; he had lost all control over himself; he even gave to those who did not expect anything.
He met Claude Rigal, the old sergeant, who had left one of his arms at Sebastopol.