In fact, I may say that every one of the lot is a rake.

I spent my whole time with them, and you can imagine that Ponomarev, the wine merchant, did a fine trade indeed! All the same, he is a rascal, you know, and ought not to be dealt with, for he puts all sorts of rubbish into his liquor--Indian wood and burnt cork and elderberry juice, the villain! Nevertheless, get him to produce a bottle from what he calls his 'special cellar,' and you will fancy yourself in the seventh heaven of delight.

And what quantities of champagne we drank! Compared with it, provincial stuff is kvass [18].

Try to imagine not merely Clicquot, but a sort of blend of Clicquot and Matradura--Clicquot of double strength.
Also Ponomarev produced a bottle of French stuff which he calls 'Bonbon.' Had it a bouquet, ask you?
Why, it had the bouquet of a rose garden, of anything else you like.

What times we had, to be sure! Just after we had left Pnomarev's place, some prince or another arrived in the town, and sent out for some champagne; but not a bottle was there left, for the officers had drunk every one! Why, I myself got through seventeen bottles at a sitting." "Come, come! You CAN'T have got through seventeen," remarked the flaxen-haired man.
"But I did, I give my word of honour," retorted Nozdrev.
"Imagine what you like, but you didn't drink even TEN bottles at a sitting." "Will you bet that I did not ?" "No; for what would be the use of betting about it ?" "Then at least wager the gun which you have bought." "No, I am not going to do anything of the kind." "Just as an experiment ?" "No." "It is as well for you that you don't, since, otherwise, you would have found yourself minus both gun and cap.