Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows,
held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse,
so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.

"Round the world!" he murmured.

"In eighty days," responded Mr. Fogg. "So we haven't a moment to lose."

"But the trunks?" gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying
his head from right to left.

"We'll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts
and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you.
We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh
and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall
do little walking. Make haste!"

Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out,
mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered:
"That's good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!"

He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure.
Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No.
Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good!
To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had
been away from France five years, would not be sorry
to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would
go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more.
But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt--
but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away,