The Final Days Before the Storm

In the spring of 1871, Paris stood divided against itself. The French government, under Adolphe Thiers, had retreated to Versailles after the humiliating defeat in the Franco-Prussian War. Meanwhile, the Paris Commune—a radical socialist government—controlled the capital. As April turned to May, tensions reached their breaking point. Despite last-ditch efforts at negotiation, including a dramatic intervention by the Freemasons of Paris who climbed the city walls wearing top hats and carrying their banners, Thiers remained uncompromising. His response to all peace overtures was unequivocal: he would not negotiate with rebels. Paris must submit to national authority like any other village. With Prussian forces threatening to intervene if he did not act quickly, Thiers prepared for a final assault.

The military situation appeared stalled. After capturing the Fort of Issy, Thiers’ forces employed traditional siege methods, slowly advancing through the Bois de Boulogne. Several attempts to infiltrate the city using fifth columnists had failed. One particularly ambitious plan involved a self-proclaimed modern Odysseus who promised to lead 80,000 troops into Paris on the night of May 13. Thiers himself waited at the front lines, but nothing happened. The army withdrew in disappointment, and Thiers continued hoping for a lucky break. That break would come unexpectedly eight days later.

The Gates Swing Open

Sunday, May 21, began like any other day during the siege. Thiers, frustrated by the lack of progress, called a war council at Mont Valérien to postpone and reorganize the assault on Paris’ defenses. Just as he entered the fortress, an excited staff officer galloped up with astonishing news: General Douai’s troops were entering Paris. Thiers and Marshal MacMahon rushed to observe through telescopes. At first, it appeared the attack might be failing, but within fifteen minutes, they watched “two black snakes” of soldiers winding their way through the Porte de Saint-Cloud and into the city.

How had this happened? At Montretout, a position previously targeted during earlier fighting, the Versailles forces had assembled what one observer called “perhaps the most powerful artillery in the world.” Continuous shelling had damaged the ramparts and forced the Communard defenders to abandon their posts. That afternoon, Ducatel, an engineer opposed to the Commune, happened to be walking near the walls. Noticing the absence of guards, he climbed the ramparts and waved a white flag. A Versailles major verified his claim, and soon Douai’s troops were pouring through the undefended gate. The siege that had begun in September was effectively over. The counter-revolution had arrived.

Chaos and Defiance in the Commune

At the Hôtel de Ville, the Commune’s leaders were busy passing final decrees when the news arrived. They had been discussing the secularization of education, theater regulations, and the conduct of war—even ordering that officers caught with prostitutes be sent to the front with pickaxes while the women were assigned to sandbag factories. Around 7 PM, Committee of Public Safety member Billioray suddenly interrupted: “Stop everything! I have urgent news!” After clearing the room, he read a report from General Dombrowski: Versailles troops were inside Paris.

According to eyewitnesses, a “stupid silence” fell before the room erupted. Raoul Rigault, supported by police chief Ferré, proposed drastic measures: blow up the Seine bridges, retreat to the old city, burn abandoned areas, and take all hostages to perish with them. The Commune released former war delegate Cluseret and adjourned—their last meeting at the Hôtel de Ville. Meanwhile, war delegate Delescluze, hearing the news, remained calm but grim. He ordered reconnaissance of threatened areas and began organizing street-by-street defense, assigning key positions to recently imprisoned officers like Brunel. That night, Delescluze issued a stirring proclamation calling Parisians to arms.

The Street Fighting Begins

As Versailles troops spread through western Paris, the Communards rallied. Barricades sprang up across the city. The fighting would be fierce and brutal. The Commune’s forces, though outnumbered and outgunned, resisted with determination. They knew defeat meant certain death or deportation. The Versaillais, eager for revenge after months of humiliation, showed little mercy. Captured Communards were often shot on sight. The streets of Paris, already scarred by war and siege, now became a killing ground.

Delescluze’s plan for a defended retreat to the old city proved impractical. Communications broke down, and coordination between different units was poor. Some Communards fought with revolutionary fervor; others deserted or hid. The Versaillais advanced methodically, using their superior artillery to blast apart barricades and buildings alike. By Monday, much of western Paris was in government hands. The Commune’s leaders dispersed, some trying to organize resistance, others fleeing for their lives.

The Legacy of the Bloody Week

The fall of the Paris Commune marked the end of one of history’s most dramatic revolutionary experiments. In its brief existence, the Commune had implemented radical policies: separation of church and state, free secular education, workers’ cooperatives, and the abolition of night baking. Though ultimately crushed, its memory inspired revolutionaries worldwide, from Lenin to the Spanish anarchists. The Bloody Week itself left deep scars on Paris. Thousands were killed in the fighting or executed afterward. Thousands more were deported to New Caledonia. The city’s physical landscape bore the marks of destruction for years.

Yet the Commune’s spirit lived on. Its emphasis on direct democracy, workers’ control, and social justice influenced socialist and anarchist movements for generations. The events of May 1871 also shaped French politics, deepening the divide between left and right that would characterize the Third Republic. Today, the Paris Commune remains a powerful symbol of revolutionary hope and tragic defeat—a reminder of what might have been, and a warning of the costs of civil strife.