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.