Serena has been working her way (Drinking? Mais non, she is on the case) through all the bars of Paris -- "[Chuck] has an intimate relationship with alcohol," she explains -- looking for Chuck. If Oncle Alphonse can't identify her brother, she's screwed. Oncle Alphonse cocks his head to one side at the photograph, then turns it over to look at the backside. The backside, he remembers. They always do. "He doesn't drink here, but he looks very much like my new waiter. He came to Paris from Prague, with my niece. He doesn't do much talking, especially about himself. Not that he needs to talk! Mon Dieu, the mouth on that boy." She nods wearily and pretends to care.
Henry spreads money on the ratty thin mattress they call a bed -- francs, guilders, florins, whatever they have there these days, I don't know -- and lies that he lied about his "small inheritance" because he was so enjoying slumming it and listening to her nightly cough out her life in little teaspoons of tubercular effluvia. "I've just been waiting for the right thing to spend it on," he says, and that's bouncing to Kerala. God knows what she has to say about it, but they jabber at each other and then suddenly Eva is hot on leaving Paris for India, for reasons that shall and must remain a mystery.
À huis clos there are breasts; hidden behind them is Chuck's sister Serena. Serena who? Serena van der Woodsen. Serena Van Der Woodsen who? That shit is so mean to do to Serena. She toddles away, wondering which one of them is real, and cops a brief squat in an alley to figure it out.
While Serge Gainsbourg sings France's answer to Dave Matthew's seminal "Crash Into Me," Prince Grimaldi condescends to pretend that Blair is not pretending to condescend. She makes chewing faces about her uneaten street kebab, lies her ass off forever, and eventually so shames herself -- "You know what's even better than street food? Street artists. I heard there's an amazing bucket drummer at the Pont Neuf Metro station, should we investigate?" -- that he smiles and compares her to Paris: "Complicated and beautiful." Is this idiot for real? Leave it to Blair to find the Monegasque Nate Archibald.
Fucking bucket drummer. I'm so sure. Anyway, how about instead of making a mockery of everything, including herself, Blair allows the Prince to take her on a "chauffeured drive in the country, to the ball my parents are throwing for the Givenchy exhibition." Unnecessarily, Blair puts one hand beside her mouth and says to the camera, woggling one eyebrow, "Givenchy was Audrey's favorite! Consider your intelligence: Insulted!" She agrees, but only if he'll take the kebab away from her and prepare himself for a whole conversation about her eating disorder on the way up there.