A Beethoven sonata can only mean horrors. CeCe drags a protesting Lily away to inform her that a careful analysis of Chuck's lurching insanity -- and quick review of all the shit he was screaming at the funeral -- has officially upped the threat level from "Everybody mourns in their own way" to "Chuck knows something bad about you and Rufus." Lily's response is genius: "Mother, I just came from burying my husband. I do not have the time, inclination, or frankly the mental capacity to go head-to-head with Chuck." Which any of the characters, adults or children, would be wise to remember, but there's a second layer here in which I think she's drawing a line between "Charles" and "Chuck," Charles being the son, and before that family friend, that she's loved since he was young, and Chuck being the monster everybody else knows, who nearly threw her in the dirt earlier, and called her a whore. She knows better than to fight either of them, but never really accepted the latter until today. Which is bad news, because Chuck needs her a thousand times more than Charles ever did. Even more than Charlie did, and does.
But there's a little bit of resentment there, too, beyond the dustup at the funeral; after all, her husband's last words didn't reach her until today, and they were full of malice and blame: "And what he knew, he already told Bart, so there's nothing to worry about, now is there?" CeCe says she won't know for sure until she debriefs him, and sends her upstairs. She goes, unwillingly but a daughter. CeCe's phone rings that instant, with the offer of a private auction: "No, I'm afraid that's impossible. I'm rather busy right now, which you would know if you read the papers..." Her face changes at his words. "I'll be right down."
Eric's spent most of the night wandering. Jenny's all tied up now with the Roses and the Waldorfs, and Blair would help him if she didn't have bigger scarier children to manage; Serena's got some Rose issues of her own to deal with, and yet another case of the Humphries; his mother is distracted and scared; his grandmother is off with the gumshoes; Nate maybe doesn't remember his name. He's just a kid, after all. And his brother is gone, to a hot red seething place he can almost remember, from before when he was broken. He's scared to see it, to touch it; afraid of what he'll see if he looks into those eyes. It almost killed him, once. And his father... His father is gone. His father was never his father. The marriage didn't last six months. He got strong enough to hope -- just strong enough, like Charlie Trout -- and Asher let him down, and Jonathan let him down, and Bart let him down, and died, and Chuck is gone. Eric's spent most of his night wandering. But when CeCe moves out of the way, he can see the elevator door, and walking toward him from it is Jonathan, the only person left, asking for forgiveness. There's Jonathan, right on time. It's what a boyfriend does.