A week or so after the King's death he is proved by his correspondence to be in France, having fled after one more pronouncement of him as a dangerous man. He went into exile this time with a sad heart; and it was not only the loyalist in him that cried out. The life of an English country gentleman would never have satisfied him; yet he longed for it now it had become impossible. He writes from Calais to a friend: "Those innocent recreations you mention of tabors and pipes, and dancing ladies, and convenient country houses, shady walks and close arbours, make one sigh to be again a spectator of them, and to be again in little England, where time slides more gently away than in any part of the world. _Quando sia mai ch'a rividerti io torno_?" He went this time knowing better than his fellow royalists the meaning of events. He was still a rank, but at least an intelligent, conspirator. English correspondents at Rouen and Caen report him in the company of one Watson, an Independent; and that he is proposing "to join the interests of all the English papists with the bloody party that murdered the king." Dr. Winsted, an English doctor in Rouen, asked him with indignation how he could meditate going back to England, "considering the abomination of that country." Digby replied that he was forced to it. "If he went not now he must starve." He plainly saw who was the real and only force in England; and he was going to make a bargain with the strong man for himself and his co-religionists. As a matter of fact there is no trace of his return at this moment. Not merely was his property in danger, but his head as well. Yet he never repented of his policy, and he carried it out, so far as might be, in his dealings with Cromwell a few years later. And Henrietta Maria bore him no grudge on this score.